


Rapid Eye Movement

by ArtsyAfrodite



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Acting, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar Ian, Dreams, F/M, Gallavich, Gallavich AU, Gen, M/M, Multi, Slow Burn, Theater Arts, mild violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-11 09:38:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 75,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2063196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtsyAfrodite/pseuds/ArtsyAfrodite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now, each night, the seemingly connecting dots tease his mind with a vivid outline of someone, colors and skin bleeding slowly into the shape, only for a huge white hole to burn through it all.  It’s like film melting in a projector.</p><p>*A Theater and Soulmate AU, where Ian and Mickey have met each other in their dreams - they just don't know it yet.*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blowing Up Shit

**Author's Note:**

> Well...I've always loved Theater (anything in the Arts really), and wanted to do an AU incorporating this. To give it a bit more of a kick, I did something a bit different and added my fascination for dreams and added the whole soulmate aspect. Ian and Mickey are older, both in their early twenties and they've never met for the purposes of this fic. This story will mainly take place in Boston, MA. I went to college out there, so all of the locations mentioned are legit. I hope you enjoy. :)

“Your dreams ever come true yet honey?”

Ian fidgets with the zipper of his jacket as he tries his very best _not_ to sound cynical as he musters up a response.  Sophia’s a sweetheart – sounds a lot like Frenchy from Grease – but a sweetheart nonetheless.  He knows she means well.  “Sadly, no,” he sighs, wondering as he always does, trying to pinpoint why and how he ended up here in the first place.  The question sounds oddly cinematic, but this is the world they live in – one where dreams supposedly come true.

_Supposedly._

Sophia lets out a disgruntled breath.  It’s a wordless message that she feels sorry for Ian, he can tell, and it makes him want to wrap himself in the thick, black stage curtains and disappear into them.  How dramatic – but it is his job after all.  “It’ll happen Ian, don’t worry,” she soothes.

“Thanks,” Ian says derisively.  He knows he sounds exactly like Debbie Downer this time around, so he moves the focus off of him.  “But hey, it happened for you,” he says in false cheer as he squeezes his colleague’s shoulder.  Sophia preens at the acknowledgement, practically bursting at the seams with happiness.  So she does what she always does when she’s like this, and lets out a string of giggles.

“Ian, I’m telling you,” she basks, “it’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before and so much better than what the books tell us.  Shit actually seems generic now.”  She girlishly bats her long eyelashes, and for a moment Ian feels transported back in time because he’s now looking at the eyes of Audrey Hepburn.  “His name is Charlie and the night after we first met, I saw him fully.  Just like _that_ ,” she says through a snap of her fingers. 

It usually doesn’t happen that fast after a first meeting, Ian thinks.  It can take weeks, even months.

He watches roses bloom into Sophia’s cheeks, fighting back a serious eye roll at how classic and romantic _Charlie and Sophia_ sounds together.  All that’s missing is the gloaming.  “I’m happy for you,” Ian says with as much joy as possible.  And _oh joy!_ is he thrilled to accommodate her face-splitting smile.

As they leave the stage and exit through the theater back door, Ian wraps his green scarf around his neck, avoiding the urge to strangle himself.  He’s happy for Sophia, he is.  But she only started the process two years ago, a late bloomer in fact, and at twenty years old it happens for her.  _Just like that_.  The cold Boston air slaps him in the face once they hit Huntington Avenue, snapping him out of his pity party. 

“Well,” Sophia says as she stops and faces Ian, “I’m meeting Charlie to grab a bite.  You’re more than welcome to join us,” she extends, her large, honey-brown eyes almost puppy-dog like.  Ian’s not fit for that third wheel shit, so he opts to decline – gracefully he hopes.

“Nah, I think I’m just gonna head home.”

Her face drops slightly as she pulls her conductor’s cap down more over her auburn curls.  “You sure?”  It’s no prob – “

“It’s fine Sophia,” Ian cuts her off.  He feels his stomach hit the pavement at the dejected look on her face.  He didn’t mean to sound snippy.  “Look,” he softens, “I’m just tired from all of the rehearsals we’ve been having lately.  Think I’m gonna take it easy, rest up for our string of dress rehearsals we’re having over the next couple of days.”

Sophia manages a small smile.  “Ok well, I’ll see ya tomorrow, alright?”  He nods before turning around to walk in the opposite direction towards his usual route up Massachusetts Avenue to get to his place on Boylston.  “And great job tonight Ian!” she yells out, earning a wave from Ian behind his head as he continues down the street.

As he walks back to his apartment, he thanks his lucky stars he lives close to the Huntington Theater.  It’s fucking freezing.  He thinks being from Chicago, winters here would be a walk in the park, but the Bean Town cold is just as brutal.  Ian shivers as he continues to walk, but this time not from the frozen air he breathes, but from the sudden feeling of being aloof as he thinks of home.  Despite being gone for four years, he still battles this emotion.   Disentanglement is no discriminator of time or location.

Ian face plants into his bed almost immediately when he gets to his place.  He’s desperate to unwind, but he knows he’s not going to.

 

It always starts slowly – a feature here, a feature there.  Sometimes, if you’re lucky and nature’s feeling generous, you’ll get something significant, like hair and what color it is, or one single eye.  But most times, it’s little giveaways, like the palm of a hand or the nape of a neck.  The same images can even repeat for months on end.  It can last for years, these little pieces of a puzzle coming together in the subconscious until you’ve been granted a full picture of _the_ _one_.

Ian’s been having these dreams for six long years now, the onset coming at the age of sixteen.  The first one was an eyebrow arching upwards, then nothing.  He can’t remember if it was blonde or brunette, the tricks REM sleep tends to play smudging the image in his memory.  Now, each night, the seemingly connecting dots tease his mind with a vivid outline of someone, colors and skin bleeding slowly into the shape, only for a huge white hole to burn through it all.  It’s like film melting in a projector.  It drives him insane, and every night he lays his head on his pillow, twenty-two years resting heavily on his chest, he feels he may never meet the one individual who is constantly in his dreams.  It’s weird, because he feels like he knows him, and yet he feels like he doesn’t.

And yes, Ian refers to the images as dreams of _him_.  The features are masculine and he’s known since eight years old that girls just weren’t his thing.

They call it _Dream Differentia_ and everyone is born with it.  The onset takes place between the ages of fourteen to sixteen, where your dreams are suddenly infiltrated by bits and pieces of the person you’re connected to – meant to be with.  It’s funny, because this phenomenon has occurred for as long as time, but it took a radical group of Scientists to acknowledge it and give it a name.  Society these days refuses to call it a soulmate however, as they now believe everything is connected to the mind.  They’ve bleached the term, reducing it down to simply, _the one_.  Ian calls it bulllshit because that term is neither new nor monumental.  He still uses soulmate mostly out of spite, but also because he’s a firm believer that the mind is nothing without the soul, or the _heart_.  So each night he unconsciously watches in his sleep, small features of who he knows is his other half, while consciously falling deeper into the fear that maybe it just won’t happen for him.

It’s known that the images come into fruition when you’ve finally been around the person.  You don’t have to speak, be formally introduced or even touch.  Just being in their presence it what triggers it, each image becoming more prominent, more complete.  For Ian, he imagines it’s like watching each stroke of an Artist’s brush, observing their form, their technique, until the painting is complete.  But it can take weeks, months even.  They say you’ll notice the difference in the intensity of your dreams immediately, even get hints of their personality.  Hearing a voice is rare, but Ian’s heard stories of it happening to those who have what they call a _consummate connection_ – perfect on every level.  But then there’s the wait and the tedious chore of trying to figure out what person triggered it each day.  If you’re lucky, the connection will be instant, and you’ll kind of just know who it is, even before you dream of them fully.

But if you’re not so lucky, and about 55% of the population isn’t, you’ll never know because you’ll never meet them.  So this percentage of those who’ve been dealt the shitty, losing hand, end up marrying or partnering with someone who’s considered a prototype, where the connection is strong enough, but it will never be…quite there.  Eventually after settling down, the images fade, and it’s back to arbitrary, black and white dreams and not remembering them most nights.

Ian hopes he’s in the 45% of the lucky ones.

He’s grown accustomed to these figments, each rapid eye movement another stroke in his incomplete painting.  But he craves more.  It’s like settling for a giclée print instead of the original.  Nevertheless, Ian knows REM sleep is a tricky sonofabitch, the pictures somewhat vague when you wake up, but giving you just enough detail to remember and obsess over.  It’s known that the details are more vivid when you’ve been suddenly awakened in the middle of it.  So the next morning Ian’s glad he forgot to turn his phone on vibrate, the loud, obnoxious ringtone waking him up in the middle of something extraordinary.

His heartbeat nearly falters as he vividly remembers what he just envisioned.  He grabs his dream journal while simultaneously picking up his phone.  He quickly glances at the screen.  It’s Fiona.  “Hello,” he finally answers while flipping through the tattered pages.  He bypasses the features he’s been dreaming of for the past three months – _thumb…forearm…right shoulder...same eyebrow._ He grabs his pen off of his nightstand, scribbling the description of the new image in his journal.

“Hey Ian!” Fiona beams into the receiver excitedly.  Ian flinches at how jovial she sounds, early morning chipper something he’s never been fond of.  He’s too preoccupied writing, leaving her hanging for longer than what’s considered a proper response time.  “Ian?”

He smiles as he glances down at what has always been considered chicken scratch before finally answering his sister. “Oh, sorry.  Hey Fi.”

“Scribbling in that dream journal of yours again, aren’t you?” she knowingly asks.

Ian pauses.  Green has always been his favorite color, but he hates when it decides to infiltrate his emotions, that old feeling of jealousy penetrating his bones.  “What if I am?” he asks rhetorically. 

He’s always somewhat envied Fiona – loves her to pieces – but still envies her.  She was lucky enough to have grown up with _the one_ , Tony Markovich, never knowing for years that it was him because meeting the person before onset triggers nothing.  It was at the age of sixteen for both of them, when the dreams started, and from there it was almost instantaneous.  Fiona laughs about it to this day, teasing about how Tony annoyed her to no end as kids, but there was always something underlying.  They’ve been together ever since onset, and now at the ages of twenty-eight, they’ve been married for ten years and have three children.  Ian knows he can never biologically produce children with his future partner, but everything else he admits to himself, he wants.

Fuck it – he wants the kids too.

“I meant no harm,” Fiona assures, “it’s ok if you are.”  Ian shrivels at how endearing her voice sounds, suddenly feeling embarrassed he got offended.

“Sorry Fi,” he apologizes.  “Just…rough few days.”

“No worries sweetie.”  Ian feels himself calm down from the mixture of jealousy and excitement as his sister continues on.  “So, we’ll all be in Boston this weekend for your big premier!” she beams some more.  “Me, Tony, the three rascals, Lip, Debby, Carl and Liam.  What’s the production again?”  Fiona was never too well versed in theater.

“The Outsiders,” Ian offered.  He’d landed the lead role as Ponyboy in the play, something he wasn’t expecting, but welcomed with open arms. 

Ian’s been working as an actor at the Huntington Theater in Boston for a year now, since he graduated from Boston University.  He’d left the Northside of Chicago at the age of eighteen, refusing to stay in state, choosing Boston, Massachusetts as his place for collegiate life.  He remembers the look on Fiona’s face when he read his acceptance letter – she’d felt cheated.  He’d moved in with his biological father, Clayton, at the age of ten when it was revealed that Frank wasn’t his real dad (and Ian wasn’t all that upset by this result really), thus reducing the time he spent with his siblings to summers only.  Fiona told him he was running.

Maybe he was.

He majored in English.  That was his path, and he was sticking to it.  Ian had never considered acting, until his roommate and now good buddy Wesley, had dared him to try out for the BU Theater production of Grease as a joke.  The joke was on Ian, because despite him doubting they’d cast a fiery red head in that play, he had been cast…as Kenickie.  Turned out, he was good at it and actually _enjoyed_ it.  So he’d added a second major of Theater Arts, and the rest is history.  Not to mention, acting helped him cope with his Bipolar disorder.  He was diagnosed when he was seventeen.

There was something about being someone else that made things easier for him sometimes.  And just as well, since his original dedication to the Marines went caput when he’d spiraled for an entire year before his diagnosis.

He hears Fiona let out a squeal on the other end of the line.  “Eeeek!  I loved that book in high school!  Who ya playin’?”

“Ponyboy.”

Another squeal.  “Well not only can I wait to see you in the play, I can’t wait for Boston accents and to _finally_ spend some time with you.”  Fiona grows quiet for a long time before letting out a sigh.  “It’s been too long Ian.”  He sinks into himself from the sadness in her voice.

“I know,” he sighs.

“But that’s behind us!”  And just like that she’s back to being sunny.  “Just callin’ to check up on ya, because _someone_ didn’t call yesterday when he said he would.”  Ian is guilty as charged.  “But it’s nice to hear your voice.  You feelin’ ok?”

Ian translates because that’s code talk for, _“How are your meds working? Have you been manic?  Depressed?”_   He’s learned over the years that his family refers to his disorder, but never quite acknowledges it.  “I’ve been fine Fi,” Ian assures her.  He can practically hear the worried lines loosening in her forehead.  She’s always been a worrier. 

She sighs in relief.  “So glad to hear that.  Call me tomorrow?”

“Of course,” Ian responds.  And he means it this time.

“Great!  See ya in a few days Ian.”

“Bye Fi.”

Ian sits silent for a few minutes after hanging up with Fiona.  It’s a shame he hasn’t gone home in four years, hasn’t seen his family in two.  It’s always them who come to him, and he’s beginning to feel like it may not be fair.  He chews the thought for a few moments before quickly turning his attention back to his dream journal.  His heart flutters as he flips through to the page where he’s written the most recent and vivid feature.  He stares at the words, feeling like something unreal just happened, because this particular attribute never comes complete when it first starts.  Ian closes his eyes as he reminisces over the dream.  The image didn’t last long, a fleeting snapshot, but it was long enough for him to see that it was something beautiful.  He looks back down and stares at what he wrote for what seems like an eternity.  And it’s simply two words.

_Blue eyes._

////

Mickey wakes up the same way he always does – breathing heavily, frustrated, while loudly throwing around every expletive he knows.  This dream business is just vile, and it’s bullshit.  It’s a waste of mind space if you ask him.  How many times can someone dream about freckles anyway?  _What the fuck._   It pisses him off without ceasing every time, because really, it’s not like he even knows where the hell these freckles are located.  Mickey can’t tell if it’s the back of a hand, an arm or the side of a cheek.  It’s just skin, and skin, and –

Mickey just wants an identifiable body part already.  Preferably that wicked ‘V’ that leads right to the perfect package of his phallic dreams.

As he sits up in his bed, he rubs the pads of his fingers over his eyes before noticing an all too familiar stream of red and blue flashes coming through his bedroom window.  Police lights.  He groans out loud as he hears fucking Terry screaming and causing his usual ruckus, a string of other voices trailing behind as whoever it is, probably the cops, obviously forces him out of the house.  He shakes his head and gathers every ounce of breath he knows he’ll need as he throws on a shirt and makes his way out of his room.

He’s immediately presented with the scene of Mandy curled up on the couch, Iggy hovering over her and Terry trying his absolute best to act worse than the animal he already is.  His face is in a horrendous snarl, his legs bucking furiously as two burly police officers practically carry him out.  He’s hurling insults at both Mandy and Iggy, accusing them of being children who lack family loyalty.  Mickey almost laughs, because really?  Loyalty is something that doesn’t even come remotely close to describing their family dynamic.  No sir.  Not the Milkoviches.  Maybe something that can be passed off as pride, but certainly _not_ loyalty.  Terry fucked that up a long time ago.

“Fuck you!  Both of you!” Terry roars.  “You’re supposed to be my kids and you fucking do this to me?!  You fucking fucks!”  Mickey can see with eyes wide shut that his father is high out of his mind.  Just another day in the life.

Iggy turns around, his jaw tight and his shoulders squared.  Mickey can see that his brother has had enough of this, his eyes red rimmed and furious.  “And you’re supposed to be our _dad_ you sonofabitch!” Iggy says as he walks towards a hemmed up Terry.  The police officers stop for a moment, catching their breath it seems, before mustering up some more strength to haul him away.  Iggy manages to get less than a foot away from his father’s face.  “You’ve hit Mandy for the last fucking time, you hear me?”  Terry’s face falls before twisting back up in an evil frown.  “You’ll never lay a hand on her again – any of us!”

“You make sure you’re outta my house before I get out!  Both of you!” Terry threatens.  He tries his best to kick Iggy, but the police quickly yank him hard enough to give him whiplash out the door as they make their way to their cruisers.

Mickey makes his way over to his sister whose body is almost ragdoll-like as she lays on the couch.  There’s flesh and bone there, but she’s weak enough where if someone were to pick her up, she’d hang limp and boneless as the doll would.  Her lip is busted in multiple spots and her right eye is black and swollen.  There’s bruises across her cheeks and handprints around her neck.  _Fucking Terry_.  He reaches his hand out to touch her shoulder, only for her to flinch before cocking her head slowly to look at him.  Mickey’s face is crumbling as his insides twist.  His natural, protective nature for who he loves, and that’s not many people, begins to kick in, but Mandy catches this and bites back the pain in her mouth to talk some sense into her brother.

“Don’t you fucking dare Mickey,” Mandy says shakily.  “Just… _don’t_.”

It’s immediately understood what she’s referring to, but Mickey could care less about what’s up and coming.  “Mandy, what choice do I have?  I can’t just leave – “

“I said don’t!” Mandy slices through his words.  She jolts up, a little too quickly, her equilibrium going to shit, as she sits up and steadies herself.  She glares at Mickey something fierce, that unspoken understanding they’ve always shared as siblings penetrating Mickey to the core.  “You’re not staying here,” she sighs, “you can’t.  You’ve got an opportunity that the rest of us will never get, and I won’t let you waste it by staying in this shit hole because dad had another one of his hissy fits.”

Mickey rubs both of his hands over his tired face, really starting to get angry at the fact he and a majority of his siblings have always seemed to be stuck here.  He thinks with them all being in their twenties that they’d be away from home by now.  But there’s something about the this house, about the Southside of Chicago, that produces an unavoidable stick, catching those predestined for shitty lives like flies on hanging sticky traps.  They were doomed from the start.

But somehow, Mickey got an out.

“You can come with me,” Mickey says too softly to be normal.  Mandy almost cringes at the way his voice sounds.

“You know I can’t do that dipshit,” she counters.  “You know what’s going on with me now.”  Mickey cynically chuckles, because Mandy is in the advanced stages of dream differentia.  Three weeks ago, her dreams intensified, each night, the images of _the one_ getting more and more clear.  She refuses to leave this God forsaken place until she knows who it is, as they are obviously someone in the area.  She says she kind of knows who it is, but wants to be sure.  “So you better be on that plane tomorrow.”

Mickey’s scheduled to fly out to Boston in the morning of all places.  He’s never achieved much in his life, was good at even less.  He was an admitted fuck up, and proud thug, certain his life would be destined for the clink or in the ground before age thirty.  But there was always his love for…well…blowing shit up.  Mickey was good at making little devices, mainly pyrotechnic ones, his head in the clouds since nine years old, always dreaming of becoming one of the cool guys that made shit blow up in the movies.  But of course, that never happened.  At least not yet.

After barely making it out of high school, Mickey was hooked up with a job by his main weed source, Benji, at a local venue that put on shows.  Aside from the occasional fuck, Mickey would always take him into the middle of nowhere, showing off his prowess for blowing up and tearing up, via the devices he always created.

_“You’d be good at like, stage shit man,” Benji commented, his high already in full effect.  “I can hook you up with a gig where my uncle manages stage performances for local bands in the area.”_

_“For real?” Mickey asked as he finagled with a piece on his newest creation._

_“Yeah man.  It won’t start off as much at first, you know, probably doing stage hand shit, but it’ll be somethin’ you like.”  Benji smiled through a mouthful of weed smoke, his lip piercing glistening in the twilight._

_“Hell yeah,” Mickey grinned.  “Why not?”_

Mickey took the job at the local venue, doing mostly errand runs at first.  He would get annoyed quickly from the mindless shit they used to have him doing, his skin itching for him to get his hands into the special effects stuff.  It wasn’t until the stage crew was stumped one day with a specific pyrotechnic effect requested by a local band, that Mickey was granted the chance to show everyone what he was made of.  He’d blown them away with his ingenuity and creativity.  Greg, Benji’s Uncle, was instantly impressed, and from there on out, he took Mickey under his wing.

Over the years, Greg would always tell Mickey to reach as high as he possibly could.  He did what Mickey wasn’t used to – encouraged him.  _“You can stay in the Southside and continue to blow shit up Mickey,”_ he would always sa _y, “Or you can go for the gold and venture somewhere where you can light shit up.”_ Mickey always understood what he meant, even though he was never one for elaborating.

So three years into working at the place, Mickey went out on a limb and way the hell out of his comfort zone, taking a class here and a class there at the community college, studying stagecraft.  It was the technical aspect of theater, film and video production, and it didn’t take long for Mickey to discover that not only was he naturally gifted at this stuff, but he understood the academics of it all.  He learned about lighting and design, props, sound mixing and stage management.  There was never the underlying intention to get a degree or certification in any of this – he just wanted to sharpen the blades he already had, giving himself more of an edge.  But before he realized it, he had enough credits for his Associate’s degree.  He didn’t pursue anything further after that.

It was more than enough for him.

A few weeks ago, Greg informed Mickey of an opportunity.  An old friend of his who is the Stage Manager at the Huntington Theater in Boston had given him a tip on a job opening.  He knew Greg often found and worked with up and coming innovators of the craft.  He immediately recommended Mickey.  _“Says he’s in need of someone innovative and young to be a Junior Special Effects Technician.  I recommended you for the job,” Greg offered, “and you’ve been here for almost six years son, it’s time.”_ Mickey had never been so afraid in his life to say yes to something.  However, after Mandy practically strangled him to take the job, he finally accepted.

Now here he is, twenty-four and preparing to leave the only place he knows as home, despite it never fitting the bill as such.

Mandy eyes Mickey as he sits in silence, swallowed by his own thoughts.  “Mickey?” she asks as she moves closer to him.  “Promise me.”

Mickey takes a deep breath as he cracks every knuckle in his hand.  “I promise, alright?”  It’s a tall order for a Milkovich, making a promise when they weren’t genetically built to handle the stress. 

Iggy finally makes his way back into the living room after being outside for what seemed like an eternity, probably chain smoking and gathering his thoughts.  He plops down on the couch next to Mandy, studying her lacerations and cursing their father.  “This shit ends tonight,” Iggy bites.  Mickey looks at his brother’s face and notices his own bruise underneath his left eye.

“You call the cops on dad?” Mickey asks Iggy.

The older Milkovich brother slowly turns his eyes towards a bruised and battered Mandy, letting out a huff.  “Fuck no,” Iggy scoffs, “Mandy called them on me _and_ dad.  I got him off of her in the middle of one of his fits, slappin’ her around and shit.  I scrapped with him a lil’, brought my fuckin’ knife to that sonofabitch’s neck.  Mandy threatened to call the cops if we both didn’t stop.  Well…we didn’t stop.”

Mickey’s not surprised they took only Terry and not Iggy.  After all, he was one of their regulars and well known for causing trouble.  It wasn’t the first time he’d been arrested for domestic abuse and whatnot.  Mickey also has his fair share of battle scars, courtesy of Terry.  “Shit man,” Mickey breathes out. 

“I was gonna kill that motherfucker, I was,” Iggy continues, his leg jumping up and down, “and it pisses me off I didn’t when I had the chance.  And you know what else?  I wonder why we haven’t stood up to him sooner.  The prick’s lost his edge, his strength is down from the years of drinkin’ and druggin’.”  He then turns his attention to Mickey, whose fists are reflexively balled.  It’s like when Iggy was upset, it caused a chain reaction.  “When you get outta here, you fuckin’ run, “he continues, “run and never look back.”

Although Mickey knows this will be virtually impossible with the few reasons for his life still being back here, he knows even more that Iggy is right.  Hopefully he’ll be able to peel them off of the hanging sticky traps and stitch up their wings so they can fly away with him eventually.

 

“Wake up asswipe!  Time to get ready!”

Mandy’s voice pierces through his head, almost splitting it in half.  Mickey jolts out of his sleep, rubbing his fingers into his eyelids, trying to clear out the remnants of REM sleep.  He’s annoyed by the sun barging its way in his room, but his breath catches in his throat, the annoyance quickly dissipating as he jogs his mind about his dream.  Everyone says you should keep a dream journal for when things like this happen – Mickey isn’t having any of that shit.  He doesn’t really give a damn about all this dream differentia mess, never has, until recently.  His images have been the same, but over the past few months he’s been starting to feel…connected to them?  He blinks his eyes a few times as he mulls over the new feature he just saw – he doesn’t need to write it down to remember it.

“You up yet?!” Mandy screams as she pokes her head back into his room.  “You’re gonna miss your flight!”

“Alright, alright!” Mickey wails back, “hold your fuckin’ horses.  I’m gettin’ ready now!”  Mandy and Iggy are taking Mickey to the airport, and they’re awfully eager to get him there, as if they’re the ones leaving.  It’s a big thing for them – a Milkovich _finally_ getting out and going somewhere.

Mickey stands from his bed and stretches.  He glances over at his clothes piled on top of his luggage bags.  He’s hardly packed.  It really isn’t that much, as he’s never owned too many articles of clothing, so it won’t take him long to unceremoniously shove everything into his bags.  But that isn’t the main reason why he hasn’t packed.  Doing so makes everything that much more real.  He’s leaving, trading in the grime of the Southside that will always be under his fingernails, for baked beans and the fucking Red Sox.

God help him now.

He showers quickly to the music of Mandy hollering for him to “ _hurry the fuck up_.”  He knows he will miss her attitude and the shrieks she lets out when she’s had enough of his shit.  He gets dressed, bypassing putting any product in his still damp hair, as he begins to think back to his dream.  _Mental note – this should be illegal._   If it felt this good seeing it for a fleeting moment in his mind’s eye, Mickey can only imagine what it will do to him in person.

So as he makes his way to Iggy’s car, Mandy tapping her foot impatiently against the pavement, he shoots his sister a mischievous glance.  “That look can only mean one thing doofus,” Mandy quips as he throws his stuff into the trunk.  “Wet dream?”

“Something like that,” he responds, still smiling.  And Christ, Mickey feels like a stupid schoolgirl because he didn’t think he would react this way.  On the way to the airport he convinces himself it’s just the honeymoon period for such a mirage and this feeling of excitement will wear off.  But deep down he knows it probably won’t as he thinks about the image over and over again.  _Shit, it’s just hair,_ he thinks to himself.

_Red hair._


	2. Sleep Softly, Leave No Room for Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He’s forwardly real, so defiant in my dreams,” Ian says as he turns his gaze on Sophia, “but so elusive when I’m awake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! I started listening to Lianne La Havas' album "Is Your Love Big Enough," which I've always loved, and realized almost every song is so appropriate for this fic. She has a lot of lyrics referring to dreams and love, and whatnot. It's also very reminiscent of anything Cinema. So, I got a lot of inspiration from this album while writing, and the title of this chapter is a variation of a line from her song, "No Room for Doubt (feat. Willy Mason)." 
> 
> I also just want to quickly say that the use of Mickey's assumed, full Ukranian version of his name is purely for fic purposes. We don't know if Mickey is short for something, or if his name is just Mickey, so it's not meant to be canon. Just wanted to use it! :)

A color scratches through his veins. 

It’s wildly ironic, because until you bleed, blood is this exact shade.  So it’s fitting to him that the idea of it is giving him absolute _life_.  He’s never thought about an attribute so much.  _Cerulean.  Sapphire.  Cobalt.  Sky.  Cornflower._ Ian’s certain he’s also been through every shade of blue there is, trying to see which color is the closest to the eyes he saw in his dream the other night.  He knows the image was too quick to pinpoint, but he’s pretty much settled on sapphire and wonders what those eyes look like when they’re happy, upset, turned on and –

 _“Helloooo?_   Earth to Ian.”

The sound of snapping fingers consequently snaps Ian out of his thoughts as he slowly turns his eyes towards Sophia.  She’s sitting on the stage floor as she always does after a stage reading, Indian style, the script placed neatly in her lap and her left hand placed gently underneath her chin.  She’s peering up at him over her black, acetate Wayfarer glasses, which he knows are fake (because everyone around here seems to wear glasses), awaiting his answer. 

Ian frowns because he doesn’t even remember her saying anything just now.  “Um,” he says as he tries to gather his thoughts, “I…uh…I’m sorry.  What were you saying just now?”  He straightens his posture in the wooden chair in a languid attempt to hide the fact he was too busy fancying. 

Sophia smiles as she pushes up her glasses.  She’s used to this from Ian by now.  “Were you even listening just now?  Like, at all?” she asks as she stands to her feet.  “It’s 12:30 and we’re about to walk over to Dunkin’ Donuts before heading over to wardrobe fitting at the Calderwood,” she says as she motions her hands towards two of their colleagues, Eli and Davis, who are still hanging around after the reading. 

The rest of the cast headed out fifteen minutes ago while the four of them stayed behind to lollygag as usual.  Ian cocks his head to the side and wracks his brain as Sophia does this weird pirouette thing – she’s even theatrical at the most random moments.  He barely remembers her saying anything about Dunkin’ Donuts, wardrobe fittings, or whatever.  He guesses this is what happens when you’re given new clues to _the one_ – everything else takes the back burner.

But Ian mostly attributes it to simply getting mind fucked.

“Why Dunkin’ Donuts?” Ian asks, finally paying his colleagues some sort of attention.

“I can’t handle anymore mystery meats from the cafeteria today,” Sophia says flatly. 

“Can’t we get real food?” Ian retorts.

Sophia raises a brow as she purses her lips.  “It is real food!” she huffs as she places her hands on her hips.  “And I’m craving a sausage croissant and a coffee coolatta.”

“Oh God, you’re not pregnant are you?” Eli interjects as he makes his way over to Ian.  He looks down at him and smirks before shooting Sophia a suspicious glance.  “Whatcha think Ian?”

“I don’t know Eli,” Ian laughs, “sounds kinda suspect to me.  She rarely eats there.”  Sophia rolls her eyes before waving dismissively at Ian and Eli.

“Forget the both of you,” she puffs as she grabs her coat off of one of the chairs, “and no I’m not pregnant.  I just want what I want.”

“Sure you do,” Eli mocks as he crosses his arms.

Sophia stomps by the two guys, making her way to down the stage steps.  She turns around once she’s down and crosses her arms.  “Look, I can’t help it that I’m in love so stop hating, the both of you,” she says with as much sass and drama as she possibly can.  Her Boston accent is thick, always getting heavier when she’s annoyed or being exceptionally thespian.  Ian’s certain the girl is destined for an Oscar one day – she already has an acceptance speech written, which he’s read.  “You two are such queens,” she continues, “and it has nothing to do with the fact that you’re both gay.” 

“You know you love it,” Eli quips, “and you’re our number one hag.”

Sophia rolls her eyes again, an amused smile playing at her lips.  “Whatever,” she says with far less theatrics.  “Look I’m hungry.  Davis, are you coming or not?  These two can stay here and slow dance in the spotlight for all I care.”

Davis, who’s always the quietest out of the foursome, emerges from the shadows and makes his way down the stage steps.  “I’m game,” he says as he meets Sophia. 

“See, somebody with some sense,” she breathes out.  “Besides, Davis here _understands_ what I’m feeling.”  And there was the divide.  Davis, just like Sophia, was lucky enough to have met his soulmate two years ago.  He was the oldest out of all of them, twenty-six, and had his onset at age fourteen.  Ian doesn’t know how he managed to hold out for ten years without losing hope.

Ian and Eli on the other hand were seemingly two lost causes, having hooked up at one point, apparently trying to be found.  It didn’t work out that way.  They’d bedded one night in a drunken haze and near desperation, only to part ways the following morning, going right back to being just as lost as before.  Ian slept that night, hoping for _something_ more to come out of his dreams. 

Still, there was no headway.  It was a repeat of the same images, which had actually been less vivid.  They say this happens when you’ve strayed towards another person.  The thought of losing these snapshots, as maddening as they could be sometimes, had actually scared Ian.  He’d subsequently left Eli’s place without word or notice, clinging desperately to the metaphors of an unknown person.  The next day Eli didn’t act upset, more than likely grasping tightly to images of his own.  Ian knows now more than ever that it couldn’t have been Eli anyway.

He doesn’t have blue eyes.

“Relax, we’re coming,” Ian says as he stands.  He puts on his jacket and wraps his scarf around his neck as he meets Sophia and Davis at the bottom of the stage steps, Eli close behind, thoughts of blue eyes even closer.

 ////

Mickey’s about to be formally introduced to the T.  It’s the Boston version of the Chicago L, running both above and underground.  It’s far more confusing and way too convoluted for a metropolis that can fit inside of the windy city.  He curses relentlessly under his breath as he tries to decipher all of the colors and which line goes where.  Green line…red line…orange line…blue line…silver line…all these fucking lines.  And he hasn’t even left his apartment yet.  He tosses his guide to the MBTA on his bed, already frustrated, and switches to Google on his laptop in proxy.  It’s the first day of his new job at the Huntington Theatre Company and he’s already 99.9% sure he’s about to get lost – and/or be late. 

But being tardy and the possibility of getting lost however, isn’t really the first thing on his mind.  It takes a very close second to freckled skin, now accompanied by red hair.  And in all honesty, these dreams and the way he dreams can feel somewhat like a mental prison.  Mickey remembers the first time he had one when he was fifteen – it unnerved him, freaked him out.  To feel that close and connected something, _someone_ , was unnatural to him.  Over the years, he learned how to slightly diminish the images with random hookups.  But what the books failed to tell you was that they came back with a vivid vengeance when you stopped.

Mickey knows that now more than ever.

After thinking too long, he finally figures out that he has options – he can either hop on the orange line at Roxbury Crossing, or the green line at Brigham Circle.  Both are in close proximity from his apartment on Tremont Street.  According to Google, the theater is about a fifteen to twenty minute walk from where he is, just a bit over a mile, but it’s too fucking cold.  Evidently, Chicago winters failed to prepare him for the arctic bite of Boston – and it’s only the beginning of December.  Thus, despite the walk seeming simple and short enough, it’s a whopping nineteen degrees.  Luckily for Mickey, his hours today don’t start until 1:00pm, because he’s already wasted too much time trying to figure out how not to get lost and get gangrene in the process.

Mickey grabs a powdered jelly donut from this little coffee shop up the street from him called Mike’s Donuts before he heads towards Brigham Circle.  He figures he’ll take the green line since it practically stops in front of the theater.  A foodgasm nearly makes his dick hard after one bite, and he’s certain this place is going to be a regular stop for him.  There’s always been a special place in his heart for jelly donuts – he’s always liked things sweet after all. 

He’s in the Mission Hill section of Boston, and it’s a step up in comparison to where he’s come from.  It’s a nice balance to him – not too upscale, and not too run down.  He can tell where he is probably isn’t the swankiest, but it’s cozy and the people don’t seem stuck up.  It does, however, make the part of the Southside where he’s from still look like a shithole, that’s for sure.

The wait for the T isn’t too long, about five minutes, but Mickey knows he’s left too late.  It’s already 12:48pm and the ride is going to be about thirteen minutes, give or take a few minutes.  His fingers are already half frozen by the time the T arrives and he suddenly has to take a piss.  And if that isn’t bad enough, to add insult to injury, the T is fucking _packed_.  And it’s not just a mere shoulder to shoulder – it’s chest to back, ass to crotch packed.  He must have left during a peak hour, lunchtime or some shit.  He nearly gets elbowed in the face, and someone has stepped on his boot about five times a minute in. 

Mickey inwardly groans because his first real day in Boston is just glorious. 

////

“What is it with you and powdered jelly donuts?” Sophia asks Ian as he stuffs his face while simultaneously walking down the street. 

Her question is warranted, given Ian’s history of practically knocking people over for the powdered pastry whenever Jim brought the group donuts at rehearsals.  His name was always on them before the box was even opened.  He’d opted for just a donut to go, the others having already eaten.  There was a guy who was obviously cruising him in Dunkin’ Donuts with blue eyes.  But looking into them for Ian didn’t feel right, ultimately wiping away his appetite.  It frustrated the hell out of him.

“You know these are my weakness,” Ian replies before taking another giant bite. 

Sophia smiles as she hooks her arm through Ian’s as they walk.  Davis and Eli are fifty steps ahead of them already, always walking too fast for the two of them.  Her facial expression becomes serious as she looks back up at the red head, who’s seemingly in deep concentration all of a sudden.  “So, how’ve you been?” she asks.  “Go to therapy earlier today?”

Ian always knew he would have a therapist when he moved to Boston.  And contrary to what his family believes (i.e. Lip and his smart fucking mouth), it has nothing to do with his bipolar disorder, but every bit to do with him.  Just him.  Sure, he was someone who happened to be diagnosed with the illness, and talking with a Psychologist helped, but he never went into any session with the intention to talk too much about it or seek any type of psychotherapy for it – he had a Psychiatrist who gave him meds for that.

“Yeah, I did,” Ian responds as he continues to stare off in the distance.  “We talked about the show premier this weekend, and also talked about my dreams.”  Outside of his family, Sophia was the only other person he talked to about his therapy.  He’d always felt comfortable around her, and she was never judgmental.

He’d always struggled with feelings of isolation growing up, and he knew despite his relocation, that same old feeling would follow him.  It was his very own ghost.  A fool is something he’s also not, and Ian knew that even though he didn’t want his illness to define him, it would definitely exacerbate the emotions he always tussled with.  He knew whenever he would become agitated, it had the potential to turn into aggravation on steroids.  So when he moved to Boston, he looked for a therapist some months later.  He saw three at first to give himself options, settling on Dr. Sandra Gibson.  She was honest and her listening noises were actual words, which he’d appreciated.  But it was when he inadvertently opened up about his frustrations with his dreams, that he knew she was it.

_“Being away from home isn’t what I thought it would be,” Ian sighed, “and the images in my dreams aren’t helping any with my anxiety.”  Ian had regurgitated.  He was so caught up in the moment and didn’t mean to talk about his dream differentia, because it’s a topic you don’t bring up in a first conversation with someone – even a therapist._

_Dr. Gibson straightened her glasses on her face.  She looked so intimidating, her black hair pulled back in a slick bun and her dark eyes ostensibly staring through him.  Ian began to feel bullets of sweat forming on his forehead._

_“I see,” she said as she wrote something in her notepad.  “This soulmate stuff can be something else, huh?” she smiled.  Ian was taken aback, but felt himself instantly relax when Dr. Gibson winked at him.  He knew right then and there that he would be coming to her for a long time._

_She’d also used the word ‘soulmate’ which made Ian think to himself, “she gets it.”_

 “What about your dreams?” Sophia asks as she studies the way Ian’s attention trails off.  “But you don’t have to discuss it with me if you don’t feel comfortable.”

Ian thinks for a moment.  His mind is shifting back and forth between REM and the present moment.  It’s sort of maddening, so he opts to just open up about it.  He always does with Sophia anyway.  “I saw another feature in my dream a few nights ago,” Ian breathes out.  He didn’t realize he was holding his breath.

“Oh,” she answers, tightening her grip around his arm.  “Wanna share?”

Sophia’s question sounds oddly eager to Ian.  He wonders if she’s asking purely for his own catharsis or for her legitimate curiosity.  Nevertheless, he shares.  “Well,” Ian sighs, “I saw his eyes.  They were blue.”  Ian stops when he starts to feel overwhelmed, just thinking about them.

“Oh my God, that’s a good thing Ian!” Sophia smiles.  “It could mean you’re getting closer.”

Ian shrugs out a nonchalant, “I guess.”  Closer for him still means not there.

“Don’t be such a Debbie Downer,” Sophia responds as she yanks his arm.  “Was there anything else?”

“That’s it.  Blue eyes,” he says as he looks down at her.  “It was quick, and nothing more.”

“But it had to have made you feel something, right?”

“It was exciting at first, but then it just made me more frustrated, more eager.  I feel like I’m getting impatient…or maybe I am closer?  The feeling is hard to distinguish.  But it would be nice if we connected already,” Ian breathes out frustratingly.

Sophia picks up on his energy, instantly feeling for him.  She’d always considered herself ‘sensitive’ to people’s emotions, a real connoisseur of auras and such – an idealist and new age flower child.  “You will,” she assures him.  Ian forces a smile, although he inwardly continues to mope.

Dr. Gibson had gone against her usual grain and decided to use rationale Ian didn’t need to hear in their session earlier.  Aside from being one of the 55% of the population who never met their ultimate match, she’d also settled down with a prototype.  She’d actually shared this tidbit with Ian when he’d had a mini meltdown one session about stress from his job at the theater and wanting so badly for his dreams to come true or just stop altogether. 

  _Dr. Gibson looked quizzically at Ian.  She picked up her notebook and began to write in it again._

_“I understand Ian, what it feels like to be eager.  I used to be.  But I want you to also embrace the idea of being with someone who you can develop feelings for, which are just as strong,” she continued as she simultaneously took notes.  “It’s ok to welcome the fact that your soulmate may not be in close proximity.”_

She’d assured him that never meeting _the one_ wasn’t all that bad, so it was no surprise she opted for the more cautious explanation.  But Ian was so over being cautious – love is anything but.  It’s impulsive and beautifully chaotic and Ian wanted it.  Dr. Gibson hadn’t met _the one_ , but she was in a happy, stable marriage and said she deeply loved the man.  Ian was unsettled by the fact she hadn’t said ‘in love’ with him.

As they continue to walk, Sophia feels Ian start to tense up.  “What’s wrong Ian?”

“Just something Dr. Gibson said,” he offers.  “She, uh, said that I should accept the fact that I may never meet my soulmate.”

“Oh come on,” Sophia huffs indignantly, “you don’t believe that negativity, do you?”

Ian pauses.  While he heard what Dr. Gibson said and is pretty sure deep down he refuses to accept it, doubt is a powerful thing and sleeping softly isn’t an option.  The dreams never end, and he’s always certain of the outcome before he wakes up.  “I’m pretty sure I renounce the idea, but whoever’s the one for me – it’s just…” Ian trails off.

“What is it?” Sophia encourages.

“He’s forwardly real, so defiant in my dreams,” Ian says as he turns his gaze on Sophia, “but so elusive when I’m awake.”

////

After what seems like an eternity, Mickey finally arrives at Symphony Station and hops off, feeling like he hasn’t breathed in fresh air for days – and it’s only his first ride on this bitch of a subway system.  He quickly checks the time on his phone.  1:04pm.  He’s not horrendously late, nevertheless he jogs south on Huntington to make his way into the theater, his bladder screaming profanities at him.  Earlier, he spoke with Greg’s longtime friend, Jim Rafferty, the Stage Manager and Associate Director he’ll be reporting to.  He told Mickey he would meet him in the main lobby at precisely 1:00pm, so Mickey isn’t that surprised when he sees who is presumably Mr. Rafferty, tapping his foot impatiently and shooting a suspicious glance down at this watch.  Mickey feels intimidated already, because it’s not even ten minutes after, and the man already looks like he’s been sucking on a lemon.

As Mickey briskly makes his way towards him, the man looks up and meets his gaze.  It’s not friendly, or angry, but flat enough to make Mickey want to turn around and run.  He’s not easily intimidated, but this guy has an air about him that says _I’m sophisticated but un-fuck-withable._ It becomes apparent that he’s Rafferty when he turns to face Mickey head on.  Mickey slows his stride, giving himself a pep talk about how to act properly in his head.  _Don’t frown.  Shake his hand.  Don’t frown.  Be cordial.  Let no profanity slip.  And don’t frown._

Mr. Rafferty speaks first.  “You must be Mykhailo Milkovich I take it?” he asks in the most monotone voice Mickey’s ever heard.  He sounds like Ben fucking Stein.  His salt and pepper hair is combed back neatly, and his glasses look as if he’s stolen them from Harry Potter.  He has his sweater tied around his neck like a preppy Ralph Lauren ad, and Mickey can’t help but laugh at how perfectly this guy fits the theater buff image.  He’s so not the type of guy Mickey would ever picture Greg being friends with, not too razzle-dazzle, but ostentatious enough for Mickey to see it in his attitude.  Still, Mickey wouldn’t try to cross him, that un-fuck-withable vibe just as strong as his razor sharp jaw line. 

“Uh, yeah,” Mickey answers nervously, “nice to meet you Mr. Rafferty.”  Mickey’s still cringing at the full Ukrainian version of his name, his facial expression nothing short of screaming how much he hates it.  He’s certain Greg told him that he goes by Mickey so why this guy is calling him by his Government is more than a little disconcerting to him. 

Mr. Rafferty catches the unsettling look on Mickey’s face, and pauses.  He peers at the young man over his glasses.  “Something wrong?”

Mickey takes this time to pause also.  He chews the inside of his cheek because he knows he needs to mind his words and choose them wisely.  Normally, he’d go slightly ape shit on someone who called him by his full name, but he knows he’s in a different world now.  “It’s just,” Mickey starts, his voice somewhat unsure, “no disrespect…but I never go by Mykhailo.”

“What would you rather go by then?” 

“Mickey,” he says before quickly gathering his manners, “please.”

The older gentleman raises an eyebrow, before showing a slight, crooked smile.  “Ah yes,” he says as he pushes his glasses up, “I do recall Greg calling you that.  My apologies, I was just reading what was on your official paperwork here.  Sometimes I get so wrapped up in work I forget things.”

“Thank you Mr. Rafferty,” Mickey offers.  It feels almost foreign coming out of his mouth.  A Milkovich saying thank you is the equivalent to pulling teeth.  He figures he needs to get used to this polite business though, if he wants to get anywhere.

“Please, call me Jim.”  And just like that the intimidating man turned into a relaxed dude.  Mickey starts to feel he’s ok.  Besides, he hasn’t even mentioned him being late.  Jim tilts his head, motioning for Mickey to follow him.  “Shall we, Mickey?”

They walk down a long corridor, Jim speaking as they make their way through the place.  He shows Mickey where the bathrooms are (to which he had to make a detour), the coat rooms, the cafeteria area, where the dressing rooms for the actors are, before taking him to a back hallway.  To Mickey, it looks like a back entrance to the area where the behind the scenes work is done.  They go up a spiral-like staircase before coming on a flat landing.  Mickey smirks when he sees a lighting console and a DMX512 digital multiplex, to his left in a booth area.  He’s been dying to get his hands on one that size for a long time now.

“Well, this is where most of the magic happens,” Jim finally says after flipping through the papers in his hand.  “I see here that a bulk of your experience is in proximate pyrotechnics, and you’ve dabbled some in consumer pyrotechnics.  We don’t use these practices often, at least not at this location.  We mainly use it for bigger action shows at our other location, The Calderwood Pavilion on Tremont.  But I see where you’re also good at some stage lighting.  Greg told me you’re a natural, a fast learner.  I trust you’ve worked with Profile and Fresnel lighting?”

Mickey feels his jaw nearly drop at all of the information the guy has on him.  He barely did his own resume and the guy is spouting out his work history over the past six years.  Greg really made him sound like a magician.  Mickey quickly gathers his thoughts, because although he’s no Houdini, he’s certainly worked his fair share of magic at more than a few shows.  “Yeah, I’ve done lighting,” Mickey says with a lot more confidence, “both Profile and Fresnel.”

“Good, good.”  Jim seems pleased as he closes the folder he’s been holding on to since Mickey arrived.  “There’s multiple lighting stations set up in the different, upper corners of the theater.  I’ll show you where.”  Mickey feels himself actually getting excited as he follows Jim back down the stairs.  They cut through the theater auditorium, walking up the center aisle.  He looks down, the carpet a deep golden and plush, and suddenly Mickey starts to feel everything sink in.  It’s a far cry from the hard, stained floor of the venue he worked at in the Southside.

Mickey’s abruptly jolted out of his thoughts, when some idiot nearly knocks him over as they zip by him.  He feels his blood pressure spike, a shoulder nearly hitting him in the face as he gathers his footing, a string of slurs ready to bounce off of his tongue.  The asshole didn’t even say excuse me.  He could tell it was a guy, despite him passing before Mickey could even look up.  He caught a glimpse of his big ass Timberland boots and blue jeans.  Mickey opts to say something to the guy, but uses his better judgment and leaves out the profanity. 

“Ay,” he begins as he starts to turn around, “excuse me would have been nice ass – “ Mickey catches the profanity before it completely slips out, quickly correcting himself.  Old habits die hard.  “You could have said excuse me.”  He feels his breath catch in his throat once he’s fully turned around and facing the guy, suddenly developing a rapid case of amnesia, forgetting what it was he was even yelling at the guy about.  All he can see is red – and more red.  _Fucking hell._

The guy stops dead in his tracks as he eyes Mickey, his hand scratching the back of his head as he smiles apologetically.  His red hair is shining in the theater lighting and Mickey suddenly feels his thoughts start to trip over one another.  “Hey, uh, I’m sorry man.  Didn’t mean to almost run you over.  It’s just…” the tall red head trails off as he narrows his eyes on Mickey.  A weird look whooshes over his face before disappearing.  He seems to snap out of whatever short reverie made him lose his train of thought.  “I’m in a bit of a rush.  Sorry about that.”

Mickey doesn’t open his mouth.  He can’t.  He doesn’t know what the fuck is happening and it’s beginning to piss him off and make him panic at the same time.  Then it hits him – the guy has _red hair._   Mickey begins to think back to his dreams, and he feels a lump form in his throat.  They say a lot of people feel it instantly when it happens.  So Mickey begins to examine the guy’s face more intently.  The initial feeling slowly begins to fade however, because this guy doesn’t have visible freckles, at least not any he can see from where he’s standing.  He feels disappointed, because the freckles were so prominent in his dreams and Jesus, the guy is fucking gorgeous.  He has eyes that look mostly green, but when he turns a certain angle and the light hits them _just right_ , they almost look bluish-hazel. 

“Well I see you’ve met one of our actors,” Jim interrupts before Mickey can say anything.  “Mickey, this is Ian Gallagher.  Ian, this is our new Stage and Junior Special Effects Technician, Mickey Milkovich.”

Ian flashes a small smile at Mickey before extending his hand.  Mickey stares at it for far too long, taking in how perfect his hand looks.  He’s acting like a complete dweeb.  But Ian’s a fast thinker and to kill the awkward moment, getting Mickey out of his frozen stance, he clears his throat and raises his eyebrows.  This seems to do the trick, Mickey quickly gripping his hand, giving it one good shake.  He looks up at Ian, noticing that same weird look flashing across his face again, before his eyes glance down at Mickey’s knuckles.  A smirk crosses the red head’s face as he obviously takes note of the inked letters.

“Interesting tattoo,” Ian says too fluently for Mickey to remain still.  His voice is like blue velvet, deep-toned and smooth.  The sound instantly travels down his spine, causing chain-reacting movement.  “Fuck,” Ian says slowly as he turns his attention to Mickey’s other hand, “U-up.”  This time Mickey raises an eyebrow, allowing time for the rest of Ian’s reaction.  People usually have a whole lot to say when they first see them.  However, Ian opts for a simple, “Intriguing.”

“Long story,” Mickey offers, somehow feeling the need to elaborate for the guy.  This is foreign and he’s in space, because he never elaborates for anyone.   

Ian smiles wider, and Mickey’s certain he feels his heart rate pick up speed.  “Well, I would love to stay and chat about it, but I’m in a bit of a rush right now.  You can tell me about it another time,” he grins out.

“Always in a rush, aren’t you Ian?” Jim interjects as he himself now examines the knuckle tattoos in question.  Mickey starts to feel like he’s a piece in an exhibit, curling his fingers in on themselves to diminish the view of the ink. 

“Yeah, I left my script on stage after the stage reading.  Now I’m gonna be late for wardrobe fitting.”  Ian turns around and begins to make his way to the stage, turning to look behind him as he continues to walk.  “See ya around Mickey,” he says with a smile.  Mickey raises his hand slightly in an awkward wave, before turning his attention back to Jim.

He follows the older gentleman to continue his tour, looking over his shoulder to admittedly get another glimpse of Ian before exiting the auditorium.  Mickey nearly crashes into the doorframe when he sees the red head standing on the stage with his hands in his pockets, seemingly watching him walk away. 

Mickey was never too caught up in the whole soulmate thing – his life never made room for it and his heart never allowed the idea of it.  And suddenly, a realization hits him that the prospect is very real, even if it isn’t Ian.  But there was something about him, _the one_ or not, that made him feel more vulnerable to the notion, and fearful.

Now, what once was merely a cipher simply constructed by REM, suddenly has value.

////

Ian walks towards the stage, trying to keep in mind that he is actually going to be late if he doesn’t get a move on.  But his mind is practically stuttering as thoughts of Mickey continue to pile on top of each other – thoughts of Mickey with the _sapphire eyes_.  He turns and looks over his shoulder, offering the dark haired guy a, “See ya later Mickey,” as he continues to make his way to the stage.

He’d almost forgotten the English language when he made the near fatal mistake of looking into Mickey’s eyes, actually feeling something resembling an implosion beneath his skin.  A sea of sapphire swallowed him briefly and he knows if he would’ve continued to speak, he would’ve started speaking gibberish.  It would have been weirdly onomatopoetic, suggesting exactly what his brain was doing.  It was a chore collecting himself fast enough to not look like a mental oaf. 

Those eyes are the same color as the ones in his dream, but Ian knows he has to keep himself grounded. 

Mickey is beautiful; that is undeniable.  Ian’s also certain of that imploding feeling he gotwhen he looked at him for the first time, but being a doubting Thomas for so long made him quickly recant the thought of Mickey possibly being _the one_.  How could he be so sure?  Ian shakes his head and laughs to himself at how much he’s analyzing meeting someone for the first time as he makes his way onto the stage.  But he can’t help it, because despite any attempts at disavowal or doubt, he walked away not feeling a complete loss of hope. 

He turns and watches Mickey walk out of the theater as he follows Jim.  His walk has an air of reckless abandon to it, his stride somewhat wild and uncalculated, while somehow having a gentleness.  It’s quite the juxtaposition, but Ian likes it when unexpected things go together, like Icy Hot, sweet and salty, or Jack Daniels and orange juice.  Mickey turns before exiting the theater, and Ian feels his heart quiver the way it did when he shook his hand.  While he was unsure about whether or not Mickey could literally be the man of his dreams, the contact made him sure about one thing.

Over the last couple of years, Ian never had much faith, even in things he could touch.  But the _feeling_ of Mickey’s hand inside of his instantly changed that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter mainly to the song "No Room for Doubt (feat. Willy Mason)" by Lianne La Havas as I mentioned earlier, but also to "Tease Me" and "Don't Wake Me Up." Now that Ian and Mickey have finally met, I can really dive into the story. The unfolding process will be interesting (I hope). Thank you all for reading, and I hope you continue to enjoy! :)))
> 
> And the jelly donuts have a purpose, trust me lol.


	3. Jelly Donuts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey’s eyes focus in on the top of his hand and the faint freckles across the top of them, eyeing the way they travel up his wrist.

_A pair of eyes quickly blinks, before disappearing into white.  It’s fleeting, but he sees that they’re the same blue.  He’s momentarily swallowed by a sapphire ocean, before he suddenly finds himself in bed, his back flush against a mattress – but it isn’t his own.  The room is dark, but there’s just enough moonlight coming through the window curtain, shredding the glow to softly soothe the arm that’s draped over his waist.  It’s the same forearm, and although the feature is the same, the feeling is different._

_There’s a warmth to it.  There’s physical contact._

_Ian hears faint breathing next to him, warm breath bathing his shoulder for just a few seconds.  “Do I know you?” he asks.  His voice is distant in his ears, far more faint than the beating of his heart which drums away with a resounding force.  He feels slighted when silence returns as his answer, and the arm of the person next to him retreats, leaving his waist bare.  An empty coldness replaces the warmth on his skin._

_The individual next to him gets out of the bed, the emptiness next to him apparent.  Ian turns his head slowly to look upon the mystery, only for him to see no one at all._

_The empty space in the bed next to him mirrors the vacancy he suddenly feels within._

 

Ian sits on the side of his bed, dream drenched and perspiring through his tank top.  He has to remove it from the burn on his skin and the heat of anxiety building beneath its layers.  Frustration for him has reached a new high – never has an image fully disappeared in his dream.  And it was quite odd, because the nature of what he saw was what he would consider more intense, however, there was somewhat of an apprehension to it all. 

There was the withdrawing of the arm.  The getting out of bed.  The disappearance.

His fingers drum away aimlessly on the keyboard of his laptop.  He’s done this more times than he cares to admit.  However, this time around, the blatant bang of the keys comes from pure frustration and not just curiosity.  Ian types in every combination he can think of in reference to ‘dream differentia’ and ‘disappearing images,’ Googling his life away.

What he finds is something he pushes to the back of his mind, hoping that tomorrow night’s dream will be better.  Right now, he just needs to focus on the upcoming show this weekend, and the arrival of his family in the next two days.  But he knows it’s too late – the thought is already there, sticking to the walls of his mind.

////

“You’re early today.”

Mickey quits web surfing on his phone and turns around to the sound of Jim’s voice coming down the aisle.  For the past thirty minutes, it had only been him and his thoughts in the theater auditorium.  It’s his third day on the job, and he made it his mission to actually arrive on time, as he was late yet again yesterday.  He hasn’t even been in Boston for a full week and already he feels as if the subway system here is conspiring against him.  To get the one up, he left almost an hour earlier than normal.

“Thought I’d get here a lot earlier this time,” Mickey says as he stands, “being I don’t wanna be on the unemployment line after a few days.”

Jim lets out a chuckle as he places a few large boxes of what looks to be pastries on the front of the stage.  “I believe in giving people time to adjust,” Jim says as he opens the boxes.  Mickey almost drools at the site of what looks like some sort of gourmet donuts to him, and not the average Dunkin’ Donuts or Krispy Kreme confections.  “Besides, I like you Mickey.  You’re a quick study and you did an excellent job yesterday at dress rehearsal.  You didn’t even need the other techs here to guide you much.”

Dress rehearsal.  _Right._   How could he forget?  Mickey shrinks into himself a little bit, breathing out a flabbergasted, “Really?”  He was certain he’d screwed up for sure yesterday – on top of embarrassing the hell out of himself.  He’s even more certain he’ll refrain from working the profile lighting today.  Also, no front seats for him during the stage reading.

“Sure thing,” Jim says with a confidence that lends Mickey a little, and it’s just enough to make him _not_ want to cover his face with his hoodie when he hears a group of voices enter the auditorium from behind him.  He turns to see Archie, a senior stage tech he got to know yesterday, along with three other techs, Marcus, Chase and the guy with the space in his teeth big enough for another tooth – Mickey can’t remember the gap-toothed guy’s name for the life of him.   He’s just mentally _Gappy_ to him for now.

A sense of relief washes over him, but quickly dissipates when he sees another slew of individuals enter.  He fights back a groan when he sees the happy brigade waltz their way gracefully down the aisle.  Mickey calls them the four musketeers – Sophia, Davis, Eli, and none other than Ian Gallagher.  They’re followed by a few other cast members, wardrobe people and staff, some faces he recognizes and others just a blur.  His eyes quickly zero in on Ian, in autofocus mode it seems, which earns him a smirk from the red head.  Mickey has to look away.

“Everything copasetic Milkovich?” Archie says as he pats Mickey on the back.  “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost man,” he smiles as he goes over and stands next to Jim.  He picks up a chocolate frosted donut, taking a huge bite out of it.  Mickey kind of does feel like he’s seen a ghost or something pretty damned close to it.  He clears his head, studying the way Archie stands next to Jim, owning more than the chocolate donut he’s decimating.  It’s sufficient enough of a distraction to keep him from focusing on how he can practically feel Ian burning a hole in the back of his head with his stares.

Mickey clears his throat, catching the tail end of Archie’s question before it expires, choking out an answer.  “I’m cool man, just…still adjusting.”

“Just making sure,” the brunette says through a mouthful of pastry.  He winks at Mickey which catches him off guard and almost offends him, but he cuts the feeling with a knife when he remembers the guy means no harm.  “Have one,” Archie suggests, holding up one of the pastry boxes.  Mickey doesn’t respond right away, his attention wrapped way the hell around his head and on Ian who he can practically hear breathing out wordless witticisms, like he’s well aware he’s all in Mickey’s headspace.  “Mickey?”

“Huh?” Mickey says, already halfway in a daydream.  He loses his already teetering train of thought again, just like that.  And he tries not to attribute it to the fact that Ian decided to walk up and lean against the stage on the other side of the pastry boxes, not even trying to hide the fact that he’s fucking eyeing him.  If his eyes were guns, Mickey’s sure he’d be shot the fuck up.  His body already feels like Swiss cheese.

 _He’s staring holes through me_ , Mickey thinks.

“A donut?” Archie clarifies, an evil grin on his face.  _Observant fucker._   “You’re practically drooling over them,” he laughs.  _Wrong source_ , Mickey thinks as he walks up to the box.

Just as he reaches for what looks like a powdered jelly donut, a hand also reaches out for the same one.  _Ian’s hand._   Mickey’s eyes focus in on the top of his hand and the faint freckles across the top of them, eyeing the way they travel up his wrist.  He guesses they continue their run onto his arm, but he can’t be so sure with the long sleeved shirt he’s wearing.  Taking his chances, he looks up and sees the red head still smirking.  He notices the same faint freckles on his neck, and retreats immediately.  He’s captivated but needs to pull back.

It’s the same fucking reaction as yesterday when he first noticed certain subtleties on Ian that stirred something up in him.

 

_“You the new stage tech?” a voice asked from behind._

_Mickey turned around to be greeted by a girl with auburn hair and large honey-brown eyes.  She was smiling something silly, which kind of freaked him out.  “Uh, yeah,” he answered blandly._

_“I’m Sophia,” she said as she extended her hand.  Mickey looked down at it as if he was just presented with some complicated mathematical equation.  He had to think about it for a minute, but just like numbers, he got it eventually._

_He quickly shook her hand before nonchalantly offering his name.  “Mickey,” he said just as three other individuals made their way over to them.  Two of the guys he didn’t recognize, but the third – how could he forget hair that red and skin that perfect?  He looked away when he caught himself staring, but it was too late – Ian caught it and gripped it tight in the most shit eating grin Mickey ever saw._

_“Well Mickey,” she said as she pivoted, pointing her arms out at the three guys like Vanna fucking White, “this is Davis, Eli and – “_

_“We met yesterday,” Ian cut her off before she could say his name.  “Nice to see you again Mickey.”_

_Mickey gave a half nod, pretty much fumbling the pass to reciprocate verbally when he noticed a slight detail he didn’t see on Ian the previous day.  He was a little closer and blinked at the freckles in Ian’s face, faint, but there nonetheless.  He retreated just as Sophia shot an awkward glance at Ian who was seemingly in his own head as well.  He seemed to be preoccupied with the way Mickey walked off frantically without another word towards the back of the stage, disappearing up the steps._

_“Well, he was nice,” Sophia huffed sarcastically._

_No – he’s elusive, Ian thought._

“Sorry,” Ian says apologetically, “I love this kind, they’re my favorite.  But you can take it.”

“Whoa, take a picture people!” Sophia squeals from one of the audience seats.  “Ian giving up his beloved jelly donut?  History’s just been made.”  A wave of chuckles ricochets throughout the auditorium, but Mickey ignores the laughter, too busy focusing on the slight blush spread across Ian’s cheeks.

He thinks for a second, feeling baited, but hunger wins and he swipes up the donut, intentionally taking an obnoxious bite out of it.  Mickey mouths out a muffled, “Thanks,” as he continues to chew, jelly now in one corner of his mouth.  He knows he looks disgusting but could care less.  He needs to be repulsive right now.

“You, uh…” Ian trails off as he motions his hand towards the corner of his own mouth, “might wanna get that.”  He smiles, because he knows Mickey is trying to come off as repugnant, but really, he couldn’t be more attractive, jelly in one corner of his mouth, only making his lips look that much more inviting.

Mickey scoffs loudly as he turns around to make his way towards the back of the stage, resisting wiping anything.  And honestly, who does this guy think he is?  Mickey can practically smell the self-satisfaction off of Ian, as if he’s got himself a fan.

“Admiring your one man fan club?” Archie asks as he leans in towards Ian.  Yesterday was certainly an interesting string of events, and he definitely was not going to miss the opportunity to pick at Ian about it. 

“You nosey bitch,” Ian laughs. 

“I prefer observant kept boy,” Archie shrugs as he taps Ian on his arm, “but it’s only been a day Ian and you already make him more nervous than a live turkey on Thanksgiving.”

“You’re seeing things,” Ian says as he begins to back away slowly.  “So he got caught up in the way I read the script, and focused a spotlight on me a little too long.  Means nothing – and I think he’s straight anyway.”

“If he’s straight, you’re blonde,” Archie quips.

Ian turns his head around to look at the back of the stage, Mickey still nowhere in sight.  He smiles coyly at the thought of a seemingly tough guy running off nervously.  “Well, gay or not, he’s still fucking cute,” he offers.  Archie laughs and turns towards Jim, who seems to have been listening to the banter between the two.  Ian waves his hand as he goes to sit on the stage in his usual chair to prepare for the stage reading.  Archie’s always been an instigator of imaginary circumstances.

 

_“Mickey?  Mickey!”_

_No response._

_“Mickey Milkovich?!” Jim yelled from the stage trying his best to get his attention.  But Ian had just finished some kind of monologue, and Mickey was far too gone in the way his voice carried over his shoulders to hear anything else.  His eyes were locked on the red head, and surprisingly, frighteningly, he didn’t look away when Ian dead bolted his gaze on him, never wavering once._

_It was – a moment?_

_A nudge in his side finally snapped him back to realty as he breathed in heavily, regaining control.  It was one of the stage techs.  “What?”_

_“You’re working profile lighting,” the tech said.  “Jim was signaling you to go get positioned so we can do a full run through but you were, uh…” the brunette trailed off as he turned towards Ian, “captivated.”  A slew of whistles resounded behind Ian from a few other cast mates.  Mickey’s face twisted into something horrified.  “No worries, he has that effect on virtually everyone.”_

_Mickey scoffed out a repugnant, “Whatever,” as he stood and gathered himself off of the floor he just melted into, “where to?”_

_“That way,” the guy pointed.  “I’m Archie by the way.  I’ll be joining you.”  Mickey looked down at the extended hand, and goodness, what was it with these people and shaking hands anyway?  He grabbed it quickly and shook it unenthusiastically._

_“Mickey,” he offered dryly._

_“Welcome to the jungle Mickey,” Archie smiled as he led the way._

“What are you doing up here?”

Mickey turns to see, _surprise surprise_ , Archie, standing on the landing behind him.  He turns back around, giving him his back to talk to, because really, he isn’t in the mood for anymore jokes, secret winks and whatnot.  He’s known the guy for barely two days and already he’s acting like he’s his fucking bestie.  “Working lighting up here, what’s it look like?”

“Uh uh,” Archie protests, “you’re on profile, remember?”

“So ask Jim to switch me,” Mickey huffs, “he’ll listen to anything you say.”

Archie raises a brow, because there is some truth behind that, but Mickey is new and needs to stick to what he was assigned to.  “While that may be true,” Archie starts as he moves towards Mickey, “we’re not doing local Indie and Metal band concerts in the Southside friend.  This is big time theater and you were placed on profile and can’t switch like that.”

“I’m not your fucking friend.” 

“Yet,” Archie proclaims confidently.  “I’m way too friendable for you not to eventually be my buddy.  So – let’s work the spotlights buddy.”

This is weird because this guy has all the makings of someone who’s annoying to no end, but somehow Mickey can’t seem to bring himself to despise him.  He inwardly groans, because he does not want to work the spotlights again.  Given yesterday’s – mishap – he wants no part.  It was bad enough he got lost, lost in the lights and the things they did to red hair and skin that should be banned from being in any type of illumination, but Archie catching on (so he thinks) was added salt on the wound.  Mickey wishes he had something to hold over his head to shut him up, like him being Jim’s kept boy, but that wasn’t a secret and well known by everyone.

 

_“Cut!  Stop…stop!” Jim’s voice blared from the floor.  He turned and looked up towards the lighting where Mickey was seemingly working them properly.  He was – but he wasn’t exactly on cue.  “Mickey, the spotlight was supposed to be off of Ian minutes ago.  You’ve been following him with the spotlight too long.”_

_Mickey froze at the sound of light chuckling coming from the same group of whistlers.  “Sorry!” he cleared his throat._

_“No problem,” Jim called out, “let’s go back to the previous scene.”_

_“Ian’s rather stunning, isn’t he?”  Mickey turned around to face Archie who was enjoying his fumbling way too much.  He felt himself getting pissed, because who the hell was this guy anyway?_

_“The fuck are you gettin’ at?” Mickey huffed.  He promised himself he would keep the Southside at bay while on the clock, but this guy was really pushing it._

_“Nothing, nothing,” he assured.  But Mickey wasn’t buying it.  “It’s just – he has that effect on people, ya know?”_

_“I’m not fucking gay if that’s what you’re getting’ at,” Mickey lied.  He wasn’t one for lying through his teeth, this particular secret so thick it was bound to break them out.  But it had to be concealed._

_“Well, I am,” Archie offered proudly.  Mickey flinched backwards as if suddenly frightened by the minimal space they were sharing in the booth.  “Relax,” Archie laughed, “I’m Jim’s kept boy so you have nothing to worry about.”_

 

“Fine,” Mickey groans, “lead the way.”

Seemingly satisfied, Archie smirks and waltzes down the steps to the back of the stage.  “You’ll graduate to the big boy shit soon enough Mickey,” he says as he turns. 

“I can’t wait to shut you up,” Mickey mumbles.  And once he has the opportunity to showcase his true skills, he knows he will.

Archie hears but he simply shrugs.  The two make their way by a group of cast members preparing for their read through, Ian amongst them and not even trying to be inconspicuous with his eyes and the way they’re following Mickey.  Out of curiosity, he turns, only to be stabbed repeatedly by green.  Mickey quickly turns and speeds up his pace to catch up to Archie.

The two make it up to the spotlight area, Mickey sitting down on a small bench.  They wait as the cast members, prepare themselves.  Mickey can feel Archie staring at him, just itching to say something.  “What is it?” he asks without looking up at him.

“You Chicago?  Southside?”

Somewhat surprised, Mickey looks up at Archie.  “Yeah, how’d you figure that?”

“A hunch I guess,” he offers as he peers out of the booth down onto the cast.  “But no, not really,” he chuckles, “Jim’s Southside.  He’s old friends with your previous boss.”

Jim being from Chicago is no surprise to Mickey.  This would explain how he knows Greg, but Southside?  “No fucking way.”

“Way,” Archie says as he turns to look back at Mickey.  “He and Greg go back, I mean wayyyy back – like car seats back.  Grew up together.”

“He doesn’t strike me as Southside.”

“He doesn’t strike a lot of people as a lot of things,” Archie offers.

“You seem to know a lot about him,” Mickey says, “and everyone else it seems.”  He’s really starting to feel awkward because casual conversation isn’t something he’s used to, especially with a supposed kept boy about his lover.  Conversations like this in the Southside came with a death warranty.

“I have my ways.  And like I said, kept boy,” he laughs.  His face suddenly turns a bit more serious, his thumbnail finding its way between his teeth.  He’s nervous, and Mickey can tell because this particular tick is one he himself suffers from.  “But on a more serious note, Jim saved my life.  My soulmate was tragically killed two years ago, and he was there for me when no one else was.  I was out of my head and suicidal, and I have no family – no support.  He became my family.”

This is far too much for Mickey to digest.  It’s heavy with emotion, and it makes him uncomfortable.  “Wow,” is all he manages to breathe out.

“Yeah, wow,” Archie says, now somewhat distant.  His demeanor suddenly starts to return to his usual, when he looks back down at Mickey, a weird smile on his face.  “Ian’s Southside, ya know.”

And now Mickey is even more uncomfortable, and somewhat nonplussed.  He knows the Southside like the back of his hand, like every scar on his knuckles from rumbles fought – like every down low, street thug he’s fucked in the cover of night in alleyways and on rooftops.  There is no way in hell Ian was from the Southside, and Mickey never saw him.  There was also nothing Southside about him.  “He is not Southside.  I would’ve known him.”

“Yeah, well, looks like you don’t know _everyone_.  He has a story, maybe you should talk to him about home, find out more about him.”

“Ok, what the fuck is it with you and trying to tie me to this guy?!”  Mickey stands, feeling himself getting angry now.  Archie is far too overzealous for his own good.

Throwing up his hands in surrender, Archie finally lays his notions to rest – at least for the rest of rehearsal.  “Whoa, don’t beat my ass man.  It’s just…” he trails off, “nothing.  Ignore me.”

“No problem, I fucking will,” Mickey puffs.

And for the remainder of the rehearsal, Mickey does just that.  He’s focused this time around, working the profile lighting like it’s his last gig.  The last thing he needs is his boss’ little boyfriend thinking he’s some smitten kitten – no fucking thank you.  The only thing Mickey allows in his head for the next few hours, is just doing shit right and well, so that after the first show this weekend, he can hurry up and graduate to the ‘big boy shit’ as Archie so eloquently put it.

////

“Your aura is off babe,” Sophia says to Ian as they wrap up rehearsal.  Ian laughs lightly as he takes off the leather jacket from wardrobe.  Leave it to Sophia to say something zany like that.

“I would ask you how it is you know this, but I know better than to question how bizarre you are,” Ian smiles as he puts on his own coat.

Sophia pulls her cap down tight over her curls as she makes this weird pouty face that Ian thinks makes her look like a dead fish.  “Your dreams again?” she asks, completely ignoring his previous comment.

“I guess you can say that.”  Ian grabs up his scarf and begins to aimlessly roll it around in his hands.  There’s something about his hands when he’s somewhat on edge, and between the upcoming show, the new nature of his dreams and his family coming – he has to keep them busy.  “It’s weird,” Ian begins as he meets Sophia’s curious gaze, “I felt him, whoever it is, next to me.  Their forearm was draped over my waist, I felt their breath and everything, but when I asked who it was, they pulled away and the images disappeared.”

Sophia lets out a small surprised gasp.  Her palm is pressed dramatically over her chest.  “This is definitely weird,” she begins as she suddenly cups her hands together.  “I don’t know if this is good or bad Ian.  Physically feeling _the one_ like that in a dream is rare, and so is speaking to them.  This is crazy, because a disappearance is rather ominous.  It’s going both ways here.”

“I know,” Ian groans, “according to my half-assed, emotion driven research on Google at the crack of dawn, my dreams _have_ gotten more intense, so I’ve more than likely been around the person, but disappearing could mean two things – that they’re not gonna be alive much longer, or they’re in serious denial about, or hiding something that could be detrimental to our connection.  Granted, there’s no running from what’s true, but still, the fact remains.”

“Or they’re already dead,” Sophia bids bluntly.  Ian narrows his eyes on her, grazed by her bullet, yet still not penetrated by how she shoots out what she thinks.  He’s immune to it by now – hell, he’s immune to it from virtually everyone at the theater, because it seems about 90% of them are all like this.  But she’s right.  Ian remembers Archie telling him about how he knew his soulmate was gone before he got the news, because not only had he dreamt about him for the first time that intensely since they’d met, but he’d disappeared. 

“Nice way to put it,” Ian says as he shakes his head.

“Sorry for the bluntness.”  Ian knows she really isn’t, her claim to being ‘unapologetically unapologetic’ something he knows she lives by.  “But I put it on the person just not being ready to accept his fate,” Sophia continues, “which means your dreams are just momentarily stunted for lack of a better term.  And just as you’re experiencing a weird, intensifying regression, your soulmate, if you’ve come into contact with him, which you may have, is probably experiencing a rapid increase that’s probably happening quicker than he can handle due to your willingness to connect.”

Ian takes a step back from Sophia, thoroughly impressed, although not surprised by her knowledge.  “You know, if this acting thing doesn’t work out for you, there’s always a fall back career of being a Dream Psychotherapist.  Some people out there could use these jewels you’re dropping.”

“True,” Sophia preens, “because some of these so called dream shrinks out here don’t give the nitty gritty details.  They never tell you this shit can be lopsided – they don’t tell you it can be harmed.”

Ian nods his head silently in agreement, although he wants to repudiate everything Sophia’s just said.  Trying his best to push the notion to the back of his mind, he makes his way over to Davis and Eli, who are cackling about something with Archie.  Eli raises a brow when he sees Ian and Sophia making their way over to where they’re standing in the audience.  “And I’m getting the brow, why?” Ian inquires once he’s close to the group. 

“Nothing,” Eli responds way too flippantly to be serious, “just admiring your one man fan club is all.”

“Who?  Mickey?” Ian asks dubiously as he shoots his eyes to the far end of the auditorium where the dark haired guy is putting on his coat and wrapping his scarf hastily around his neck.  His face is twisted in what seems to be a natural (albeit cute) frown, as he pats at his pockets with a lighter in hand.  He’s obviously a smoker.  Suddenly, the old taste of nicotine fills Ian’s mouth, settling in the back of his throat as he remembers the palate of smoke his tongue knew all too well. 

“I pissed him off royally today,” Archie jests as he shoots his eyes over to Mickey, who quickly catches him smiling slyly at him.  He gets a branded middle finger in return from the Southside brute as he turns to exit the auditorium.  “Gosh he’s such a lout,” Archie says as he watches Mickey walk towards the doors, “and he’s perfect for you Ian.”

“I’m sorry,” Ian chokes out, “what?  Per – wait a minute…how do you even assume this?”

“You know not only does he have premium gaydar, but he’s a match making guru.  Guy’s pristine,” Eli laughs.

Archie turns to face a reddening Ian whose attention is on the back of Mickey as he unceremoniously bursts out of the theater doors.  “To be honest, I’m on him so hard because he reminds me so much of Jamaal,” Archie says more solemnly.  Everyone suddenly grows quiet, because it’s not often Archie mentions the name of his soulmate.  “He was just like Mickey, all rough and tough, a true product of Dorchester, but beneath all of those seemingly hard layers was nothing but a pulsating heart and scared boy just waiting to be loved.  The way I saw him look at you Ian…” Archie trails off before quickly glancing down at his hands, “it was the same look Jamaal used to give me.”

Everyone in the group looks at each other, stumped, unsure how to carry on from such a heavy statement.  It was two years ago Jamaal was killed by a stray bullet from a drive-by when he was visiting family in his old neighborhood, but the wounds for Archie were still as fresh as if it happened yesterday.  He’s been a lot better since Jim. 

Archie beats the rest of the group thinking of ways to kill the silence by doing it himself, breathing out, “He could be _the one_ Ian.”

“It could also be the cute guy that hit on me at Starbucks yesterday,” Ian poses sarcastically.  He knits his eyebrows as he silently dismisses what Archie just offered.  He lends his theory to emotion and just trying to find something to say to make him feel better about turning into obvious mush over Mickey.  _Yeah right_ , is his initial thought, but somehow, he can’t bring himself to be overly skeptical.

////

Rehearsal’s finally ended and Mickey feels like he’s been gripping to the lights for dear life – his shoulders are tense and his arms are doing that weird tingling thing they do when he’s slept on them wrong.  Between trying to actually stay focused and take his cues right, and actively ignoring Archie, he must have been tense as all hell.  He cracks his neck as he pats his jean pockets for his pack of cigarettes.  He glances towards a small group of people in the middle of the auditorium and finds Archie fucking smiling at him.  Mickey reciprocates with a middle finger before storming out of the theater. 

He makes his way outside, already lighting up before he fully makes his way out the door.  Making his way up the street to hop on the T, he hears incessant chatter behind him, but refuses to turn around.  He’s fucking starving and could use some lasagna from Lily’s near his apartment.

“Where you going Mickey?” a voice booms from behind him.

Mickey doesn’t even have to turn around to see who the culprit is.  He zips his coat up a little higher towards his scarf, before turning around to see Archie surrounded by the four musketeers.  He swallows his reflexes, his initial reaction to spit out expletives at the guy for being so incredibly annoying.  “I’m going to mind my own fucking business,” Mickey huffs out.

Archie is made of rubber however, the blatant attitude Mickey’s just hurled at him bouncing off.  He simply crosses his arms.  “But you gotta come eat with us.”

“Says who?” Mickey asks incredulously, “you?”

“No, says tradition.  It’s tradition that the new guy eats with us every day his first week.  You’ve already missed the first two.”

“Since when is that a tradition?” Sophia blurts out, earning a nudge from Archie.

Mickey quirks an eyebrow, contemplating saying nothing and just rudely going on about his merry way, but then he catches a glance from Ian, and he suddenly feels inclined to accept the invitation.  But he dismisses the look being the catalyst and blames being too hungry to think straight.  “Fine,” he huffs reluctantly.  He pretends he doesn’t take notice of the surprised and somewhat pleased look on Ian’s face when he walks over towards the group.  “Where we going?”

Archie looks behind himself, glancing up at Ian.  “You choose Ian,” he says mischievously.

“What?  Why do I have to choose?” Ian asks, already hip to the game Archie is playing.  _Fucker_.

“Yeah, why?” Davis throws in his two cents.  He’s usually quiet, but he knows good and well they will just end up at McDonald’s.  “He always picks McDonald’s!”

“I do not,” Ian challenges, “not all the time.”  The group simultaneously gives him the eye.  “Fine!  Chipotle?”

“That’ll do,” Archie answers quickly.  He moves in between Sophia and Eli, closely behind Davis, walking shoulder to shoulder.  “Walk close to me,” he whispers to the two, trying his best to make Ian and Mickey walk with each other.

The group begins to walk down Huntington Ave to make their way to the Chipotle on Brookline.  Mickey somehow ends up walking side by side with Ian, who keeps looking over at him nervously.  The silence is awkward, and it gets even more awkward when Ian opens his mouth, apparently to speak, but decides against it, slamming his mouth shut.  Mickey groans inwardly, because there is no way in hell he’s walking like this, acting as if they’re inept of forming words.

“Archie tells me you’re Chicago,” Mickey breaks the ice, “Southside.”

Somewhat surprised, Ian smiles before aimlessly adjusting his scarf on his neck.  “Yeah,” he answers, looking back at Mickey, “but also the Northside.”

“You got a story?” Mickey asks, actually wanting to know more about Ian, despite him telling himself he could care less.

“Let me guess,” Ian says as he eyes the back of Archie’s head, who not surprisingly, turns right on cue and grins, “Archie told you this?”

“He did,” Mickey answers, catching the wink the fucker just gave Ian.  “I don’t get how you take this guy.”

“I don’t,” Ian laughs, “I’ve just gotten used to him.  He’s harmless though.”  Ian then looks back at Mickey, and closes the gap between them just a little, something not noticeable to someone passing by, but Mickey notices immediately.  He feels like he wants to widen it again, but doesn’t. 

“So what’s your story?  I’m interested, because I know the Southside like the back of my hand, and I’ve never seen you.”

Ian looks towards the ground bashfully as he scratches the back of his neck.  “Yeah, well, my biological father got custody of me when I was ten, moved me to the Northside with him.  Turns out my mom had an affair with my supposed dad Frank’s brother.”

“Frank?” Mickey asks, a light bulb looming over his head. 

“Yeah, Frank Gallagher,” Ian responds.

“Get the fuck out, you’re fucking Frank Gallagher’s son?”  Mickey is taken aback but not shocked, because he remembers Mandy talking about Lip Gallagher, who’s written a paper or two for him in school, having five siblings, yet he’s always only known of four.

“I am, and I’m not,” Ian laughs.  “Needless to say I wasn’t too upset at the big reveal, being an illegitimate spawn and all – it’s Frank for goodness sake.”

“I bet you weren’t.  Guy’s a fucking douchebag man – no offense.”

“None taken.”  Ian then catches the blue of Mickey’s eyes in the middle of his laugh, and feels a lump form in his throat.  He has to look away.

“That explains me never seeing you,” Mickey continues, not catching Ian’s sudden overwhelmed state.  “I spent most of the summertime as a kid and into my teens in Detroit with my Aunt Randi, me and my sister Mandy.”

Ian simply nods, trying his best to hide the sudden feeling building in his chest.  He knows he’s getting beside himself with his thoughts.  Mickey simply shrugs when he notices Ian isn’t talking all of a sudden – back to the awkward silence.  This is the most Mickey’s ever spoken to anyone in years anyway.

After about fifteen minutes of walking through the city, stomping the pavement to parts unknown for Mickey, they finally arrive at the restaurant.  The group makes their way inside.  The line is long as hell, and Mickey is itching to know what the big fuss is about the food here.  Who wants to stand in line for eternity for Mexican food?  And after what feels like an eternity, they all finally have their orders and sit at a table in the middle of the place.

“So,” Archie begins after taking a spoonful of his chicken bowl, “Mickey, you will be at the party on Saturday after the show right?”

Mickey hears him, but he’s having a religious experience after taking one bite of his steak burrito.  He remains silent as he takes a second bite.  He then looks up from his food, noticing five sets of eyes on him.  “What party?”

“After every production, Jim throws a huge party at his penthouse for the cast members, wardrobe and stage crew,” Sophia chimes in.  “His place is so wicked – it’s in the Avalon at Prudential.”

“I’m not a party person,” Mickey responds before going back to his food.  Silence materializes around the bunch, and once again, he finds himself being ogled.

Archie leans forward on his stool, placing his elbows on the table as he rests his chin on his hands.  “I’m putting my elbows on the table for you Mickey,” he says as he tilts his head, “so hear me.”  Mickey doesn’t want to, but he knows he has no choice.  “You must become a party person for us on Saturday.  Besides, everyone goes!”

“I’m not everyone,” Mickey huffs. 

“Well you will be on Saturday!”  Of course Archie refuses to back down.

Mickey rolls his eyes all the way into the back of his head.  He isn’t one for parties, especially swanky, city ones with a bunch of theater buffs and the beau monde.  But he _says fuck_ it to himself, resigning to attending.  He reluctantly hands this battle over to Archie – and the hopeful look on Ian’s face.

He ignores the gnawing in his gut for more Mexican food and the promise of free booze on Saturday.

////

_An enigmatic pair of hands grips his wrists.  The mystery is a strong one, covered in freckles delicately spread across the top of his hands, starting where the knuckles jut out the way they do when gripping someone familiar.  They travel up his wrists and onto his arms, the pattern delicate and seemingly placed strategically for him to always admire, further appreciation settled in the details of them being hands and arms that are designed to hold._

_And not being ready for these arms to spill over him in a bedded embrace doesn’t erase the verity that they’re still designed to cleave to – him specifically.  That much he can feel despite any fear of such closeness._

_“Who are you?” Mickey asks, knowing silence is the only response he’ll get.  His voice echoes in the unknown space as a quick breath escapes the individual gripping his wrists.  The sound is not specific enough, but it nearly startles him from the warmth it causes to spread down his spine._

_He slowly casts his eyes upward, hoping for a face, only for a bright white light to bleed through the rest of the form, leaving only strands of red hair for his eyes.  He blinks frantically when these hands start to pull him forward, his heart rate threatening to give him tachycardia.  He feels body heat breach the threads of his shirt, before it’s cold suddenly and everything is dim again.  But he somehow still sees hands and the freckles he feels he knows already – even in the dark._

 

Waking up is always brutal.

Mickey sits up wildly already cursing sleep and the way it always fucks with him.  At this point, hair and freckles is all he owns.  It’s in his mind, a figment within an endless dreamscape that’s far from tangible, yet too visceral to be ignored.  But he knows where these freckles are and the hair is as red as fire, so he convinces himself he’s fine with this.

_But not really._

Now he’s convinced and freaked the fuck out.  He rubs his tattooed fingers through his hair, drenched with sweat, despite the heat being shitty in his apartment.  The nearly empty space is colder than what’s considered comfortable, yet his body is on fire.  It has to be _him_.  Mickey’s never been too sure about anything in his life except his sexuality and the fact it’s his biggest and deadliest secret, but the feeling he’s been carrying in the pit of his stomach since he met Ian Gallagher has just been justified by the rapid development of his dreams. 

He shakes the notion loose in his head as he stands to make his way to his kitchen.  He opens his nearly empty refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of Grey Goose Iggy gave him as a parting gift.  There’s basically no food in there, but he has alcohol.  Go figure.  It’s common knowledge by now that Milkoviches could do without food, but booze had to always be plentiful.  He opens it without hesitation, skips grabbing a plastic cup, because he has yet to buy real dishes and whatnot, and tips the bottle back eagerly.  The burn is more than welcome, and settles right in the pit of his stomach with that gnawing feeling one red head left there. 

He’s fucking stressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm continuing to write this to Lianne La Havas' album "Is Your Love Big Enough?" I'm pretty sure I know every word to every song now lol. But yeah - not much to say about this chapter except I hope you enjoyed. As you can see, their dreams are manifesting, but in very different ways, which I tried to parallel to how they each are characteristically, but in an opposite kind of way (Ian's dreams mirror who Mickey is and vice versa). The next chapter should be fun (I hope), with the show, some partying and the arrival of the Gallaghers! As usual, thanks for reading. :)))
> 
> Follow me at penprowess.tumblr.com and say hiiiii! :) artsyafrodite will be laid to rest soon.


	4. Underground Sparring Partner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Everyone carries a shadow, and the less it is embodied in the individual’s conscious life, the blacker and denser it is.” – Carl Jung

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote this chapter to the songs "Sleep Baby Sleep" and "Taking You There" by Broods. Highly recommend....

_Looking in the mirror without the glass.  Yes, that’s it – right there – you._

_Mickey blinks his eyes madly as he stares at the smirking person standing in front of him.  Himself.  He can touch him, pinch him, and if he wanted to, a punch could be thrown.  And for some reason, that’s exactly what he feels like doing.  The urge is egotistical and wild – so him.  His arms however, are too short to box with his double, as he sinks deeper into the subconscious that rages war every time he closes his eyes.  The needful things rapid eye movement scratches at your eyes for.  It can be an artful bitch._

_An ominous feeling lunges at him as prototype Mickey smiles even more slyly at him.  “Why am I smiling?” Mickey asks impatiently.  The clone shakes his head, smiling, devilish, not answering at first.  He simply crosses his arms and looks Mickey up and down.  Fucking stubborn.  In this moment, Mickey wonders if he actually looks this arrogant in real life.  “You hear what I said?” he pushes._

_Just as his double opens his mouth to speak, a sharp ray of sunlight blinds Mickey momentarily.  Once it frees his eyes, he looks back at himself.  Except this time, he’s not alone.  He now has his back to Mickey, and standing in front of himself – is a tall red head.  He can barely see this guy’s face because it’s covered by his own that’s seemingly kissing him._

_What the fuck._

_He’s bent forward and hunched at the shoulders from being taller than him, and even though Mickey should be able to see definitive facial features, all he can see is the same red hair.  He can see the same pale skin.  He can see the same faint freckles now speckled across two strong arms – wrapped around his waist.  He nearly feels his knees give out when he sees himself reach his hand up and run his fingers through red hair as he smiles into the kiss.  It’s vulnerable and sickly-sweet – so not him._

_Or maybe it is._

_Feeling a name growing in his gut, Mickey rushes forward, and asks, “Ian?”_

_But instead of an answer from the red haired mystery, he himself turns around, makes contact and forcefully places his hand over his face to block further view and whispers four words harshly into his ear._

_“Get out from underground.”_

All Mickey hears is his own laughing, before he violently awakes and nearly falls out of his bed.  This is the second night he’s had a dream like this. 

It doesn’t help he can still hear himself saying Ian’s name in the distant corners of his mind, and to add further insult to injury, being around Ian more and more has caused his dreams to strengthen, rapidly.  They’ve developed legs and are off and running.  Fucking Olympic sprints.  And despite not fully seeing his dream guy’s face, he knows it’s him.  It has to be.  His gut says so and it’s something that’s always been a failsafe – it’s rarely steered him wrong.

Now there’s this new element to his dreams, the punitive sarcasm, and Mickey can’t help but feel it has every bit to do with his hesitation to approach the truths within himself.  So leave it to subconscious and emotionally forward him to rub it in his same face.  REM Mickey is open – conscious Mickey is closed.  REM Mickey is content with who he is – conscious Mickey just pretends to be.  Himself in a reverie state is open and honest.  He’s _free_.

Mickey would be deemed a liar if he said this didn’t make him feel trapped within his own skin, somewhat envious.  But he’s wearing armor, shiny and green, and he’s jealous at what’s seemingly himself.  So when the envious arrow strikes, it’s coming from within so it simply ricochets and pierces the same wound.  It’s an internal battle.  

He wants to do one thing.  One thing only.  It’s familiar and something he knows well.  To run.  Mickey wants to run from what’s being shoved at him each night, but he knows that’s impossible.  He knows he’ll have to soon face ~~Ian~~ his soulmate, not only in his dreams, but in reality.  It’s something he’s not ready for, but it’s not nearly as daunting as who he has to face first.

_Mickey Milkovich_.

////

Ian leans his head back into the cool leather couch and lets his thoughts rest there.  Momentary peacefulness.  He closes his eyes and lets out a long breath, needing the release.  It’s the day before the show premier, anxieties are high, his dreams are in a million different pieces, but more than that – his family is arriving this afternoon.  He must admit, it’s a bit much.  There’s always surprises and unwanted conversations when his family comes, and given the fact he can feel he’s supposed to be crashing, it won’t be an easy breezy weekend.

And stacked on top of this – he can’t seem to stop thinking about Mickey and how he wants him so much closer.  If nothing else, the dark haired boy has been a beautiful distraction at rehearsals.

Dr. Gibson straightens her glasses on her face as she looks over at Ian.  His eyes are lost in the ceiling above and his thoughts seem to be right up there with them, just as adrift.  “What are you thinking?” she asks, knowing he’ll just look at her and shrug.  They’ve been at this game for a half hour now, the tug-of-war letting her know that if it weren’t for Ian’s meds, he’d probably be in a depressive state.  Aside from a few grunts and one word answers, Ian’s pretty much been unresponsive.  “You feel it don’t you?” she asks, her pen clutched and ready to christen her empty pad.

Ian lifts his head and maneuvers himself until he’s upright, straightening his back in the process.  If not his mind, at least his spine will be level and his posture right.  It’s a peace offering.  He knows what Dr. Gibson is getting at.  “Feel what?” Ian starts as he grips his knees with his hands, “the down without being _down_?”

“Yes,” she answers as she quickly jots something down in her yellow notepad.  “That’s an interesting way of putting it.  Care to explain?”

Ian bites his bottom lip and leans forward to rest his forearms atop his knees.  He clasps his hands tightly together as his eyes look at the gray and brown carpet on the floor, its boxed designs and lined patterns.  He’s more preoccupied with the intricate weaving down there.  Explaining how he feels has never been an issue for him.  He’s always considered himself pretty straight forward, but when it came to his bipolar disorder, it was more than explaining the nuances of his bed of emotions – it was taking a shovel and digging down deep there.  Complicated.  Just like the fucking carpet. 

“I’d rather not,” he finally answers, looking hesitantly up at Dr. Gibson.  He expected to see her peer over her glasses at him the way she always did, but she instead smiled.

“I understand,” she responds, placing her pen down.  “Care to talk about anything else?  Your family coming, the big show or…” she trails off, maneuvering her office chair just a bit closer to the couch, “your dreams, perhaps?”

And there it is.  The one and only thing Ian wants to talk about – what he ever wants to talk about lately.  Despite the rapid manifestations of the images that have been transpiring into disappearing acts, Ian feels the need to express how he feels about them to his therapist.  “The images still come in spurts, so much stronger and clearer now.  I’ve even felt the guy, but the images disappear,” Ian opens up.

“Do they now?  Sounds like you’ve made some kind of contact.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, “it’s weird.”  Ian then chews nervously on his bottom lip as he busies his hands with the hem of his sweater.  He thinks briefly if he should go on or leave the rest to the imagination.  Ian figures he has nothing to lose by talking about this.  He’s going for it.  “They’ve definitely gotten stronger, but in the same breath they’ve gotten – no – that’s not it…” he trails off, “they’re tricky?  All I know is that I can practically feel the guy, yet he vanishes somehow.”

“Ah, I see,” Dr. Gibson offers as she straightens her glasses on her face.  “I’m not certified in this stuff, but I know enough, and it sounds like your soulmate is what the experts call _underground_.”

“Underground?”

“Yes Ian,” she continues, “underground.  It’s when someone has some repressed issues or desires that they ignore in their conscious life, so they push it down, deep down, to the point where it’s essentially underground in the subconscious.  So what’s more than likely happening with this mystery guy right now, is that his dreams are rapidly intensifying, the images are getting more complete to recognition.  He may even be seeing himself in these dreams acting out these desires.”

Ian sits up a little straighter, makes his back a little tauter, his eyes more focused.  He looks at Dr. Gibson with a hybrid look of awe and concern.  “So you’re saying he could possibly know it’s me?”

“Possibly.”

“But he may not want to face that?” he asks and Dr. Gibson nods her head in agreement.  A jagged breath escapes Ian’s mouth as he feels his lungs start to ignore him.  A warm flush comes over his face and he isn’t sure if he’s sad or just plain livid – but he knows he’s fucking nervous now.  “So where does this leave me?” he asks hesitantly.  His voice is low, controlled.  Somber.

“Well,” Dr. Gibson starts as she takes off her glasses and rests her chin on her hand, “that leaves you still not knowing, I guess.  I don’t really know how to answer that really,” she offers.

Ian stands and begins to put on his jacket, his eyebrows furrowed and the slight wrinkle in his forehead a telltale sign that his nerves have hitched themselves around his neck.  It’s suffocating.  Like always.  “That leaves me right where I’ve always been,” Ian says, his voice lined in something now slightly angry.  He doesn’t want to swallow this new information, and in all honesty he shouldn’t be surprised really.  His life has always been full of short sticks.

“And where’s that?” Dr. Gibson asks genuinely concerned.

“Alone.”

She watches as Ian zips up his coat, his lips pressed tightly in a dismal line, worried and preventative.  One twitch or tremble of his lips and the movement will remind the eyes it’s time to cry.  So he remains stoic and keeps them taut just like his back as Dr. Gibson offers him assurance.  “You’re not alone Ian.”

He smiles forcefully as he tosses his messenger bag across his chest.  He deflects.  “I have to go,” he says in a monotone voice, “my family will be arriving soon.”

And with that Ian walks out of Dr. Gibson’s office, leaving his hope there.

////

Ian’s back at his apartment.  He pushes his session with Dr. Gibson down, deep down right with the bed of his bipolar emotions.  It’s coping and pretending all at the same time.  He’s in the middle of trying to act as if he’s not on the verge of a mini nervous breakdown when a string of loud buzzes distracts him.  It’s a symphony of short tones followed by long, intentional tones – a morse code from a Gallagher for sure.

“Who is it?!” Ian yells into the speaker.

There’s a short pause followed by an intentional huff.  It’s arrogant.  “Only the best brother in the world.  Let me up already!”  Lip of course.  Ian’s been expecting his family for the past hour, so he braces himself to put on a happy face as he buzzes them up.  A few minutes later, he’s slightly nonplussed that it’s only Lip who walks in, smug already written across his face as he surveys his younger brother’s apartment.

“Hey Lip, nice to see you man.  Where’s Fi and everyone else?” Ian asks.

“Jesus fuck I hate this city, transportation stinks,” Lip disregards his question as he makes a b-line for Ian’s refrigerator.  He surveys the contents until he finds what he’s looking for, pulling out a beer.  “Even their airport has a stupid name – Logan – give me a break.  And the accents, man oh man I’m gonna need a Boston translator while I’m here.”

Ian furrows his brows at his brother’s rants about dumb airport names, transportation and Boston accents.  He complained like this last time, so he’s unmoved by his attitude.  “Oh hi Ian!  Nice to see you too!” Ian gibes sarcastically.  “How are you?  I’m fine Lip, thanks for asking!”  Lip pauses after opening the beer with his keychain beer opener and squints his eyes as if making sure this is Ian and not a perpetrator.

“Nice digs for a struggling actor Ian,” Lip says, still not regarding his first question.  “Better than your last place.  You sure you don’t have some sugar daddy tucked away somewhere?” 

Ian rolls his eyes deeply at that, because he’s only had an affair once – okay twice – with older married men when he was fifteen and sixteen, and ever since then Lip hasn’t let up about it.  “My dad dwells in the Northside, remember?”

“You get an allowance, huh?”

“More like pays me to stay away,” Ian responds begrudgingly.  “He’ll do anything to keep that witch wife of his happy so they can pretend like I never was.  So he pays half of my rent every month.  Anything to keep my head above water here so I _stay_ here.  Honestly, even if I lived in shit, he has nothing to worry about.  I’d rather live in squalor than go back there.”

“There’s always home-home ya know,” Lip says, “and ever since Tony and Fi moved in the house next door once the renovations were done, there’s more than enough room.  Even fucking Frank hasn’t been living there.”

“I think I’ll milk Clayton for all it’s worth,” Ian responds, clearly not interested in going back to Chicago.  “I’ll be fine here, even if he stops.”

“Lucky you,” Lip responds smugly.

“Fuck you Lip,” Ian bites.  “I would ask you how your flight was but now that I don’t care, would you please just answer my first question?  Where’s everyone else?”

Lip smiles slightly as he makes his way over to Ian and claps him on the back.  He then pulls him in for a quick embrace before stepping back.  “It’s nice to see you finally,” he says a little more serious, “and everyone’s at the hotel.  Mason peed his pants during the cab ride, didn’t say he had to go at the airport so Fi has the get him all cleaned up.  Tony’s with her, Leah and Oliver, and so is Debs, Carl and Liam.”

“You in a room with Debs, Carl and Liam?” Ian asks, already knowing Lip is going to ask to crash with him anyway.

“Yeah, but I think I’ma crash here,” Lip responds, not even bothering to ask.  “You gonna stop by the hotel?”

“I have dress rehearsal in less than an hour so I won’t be able to see them until after,” Ian says just as Lip plops down on his couch.

“No worries.  Tony and Fi are making dinner plans for later tonight at Cheers.” 

“Beacon Hill or Quincy Market?” Ian asks, and Lip simply smirks and shrugs.  “The original is in Beacon Hill and last time it was Quincy Market, the replica.”

“Dunno which one,” Lip shrugs again.  “I don’t think they care too much, as long as it’s Cheers.”

Leave it to Tony and Fi – really Fi – to make dinner plans at the one place they go to their first night in Boston just like last time.  They’re such tourists, always making it their mission to embarrass him as they sing obnoxiously at the table, _“Sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name!”_ Ian is already bracing himself.  But that’s the Gallaghers for you.  They’re quirky, unabashed.  They’re funny and loving.  Family.

Just as Ian sits next to Lip, he notices his older brother get somewhat antsy.  He’s way too fidgety, his eyes squinting more than normal and he scratches at his temple with his thumb.  He’s deep in thought.  Ian catches a peripheral glance from Lip, who then turns so he’s facing him fully.

“I’m uh – kinda freaking out about something,” Lip finally spills.  Ian studies his brother’s face, and he can tell something is irking him, but then again, everything irks Lip.

“What is it?” Ian asks derisively.

“My fucking dreams man,” Lip starts and Ian already knows what he’s about to say before he expounds further.  “They’re developing, and it’s driving me crazy.”

“Why?  Isn’t that a good thing?”

“For some maybe, but not me.  I’m too young to be tied down,” Lip says before taking another swig of his beer.  “And the worst part is I don’t have a choice and I’ll love whoever she is as soon as I see her in my sleep.” 

“And?” Ian says rhetorically, not really wanting Lip to complete the sentence with the literal bullshit he’s about to spit.

Lip raises his brows as he makes his ‘are you serious’ look.  Ian just knows there’s a theory looming somewhere in the baffled crinkle in Lip’s forehead.  “I’ve been living in California since I started at Standford six years ago.  I came home during holidays, was living life and enjoying it.  I even decided to stay after graduation.  Then as soon as I decide to move back to Chicago, it starts fucking happening, this dream differentia shit.  Don’t you get it Ian?” Lip asks as he leans forward, “I’ll soon no longer belong to myself.  It’s God’s way of saying, _‘Yeah you remember free will?  Well I take it back.  Here’s someone, love them.’_ It’s human entrapment man.”

No, Ian doesn’t get it.  But he does get Lip.  He’s a brilliant dumb ass.  Leave it to Lip to not want to know who _the one_ is and theorize passionately about why.  Typical.  “You’re so full of shit Lip,” Ian scoffs as he stands. 

“Not everyone is a hopeless romantic bro.  Some of us think this soulmate shit is actual shit.”

Ian grabs his jacket and begins to shuck it on.  He side eyes Lip who’s practically patting himself on the back, gloating at his ability to make absolute crap sound intelligent.  Because that’s what it is – crap.  “I’m heading to the theater a little early,” Ian says as he ties his scarf around his neck, tight the way he does when he’s had enough. 

“Aw c’mon, Ian,” Lip says as he follows him to his door, “I know how you feel about this stuff.  No need to run out the door about it.  I just got here!”

“Just make sure the knob lock is on when you leave Lip,” Ian responds before letting the door separate him from Lip’s ramblings. 

It’s going to be a long weekend.

////

“Stop looking around like you stole something.”

Mickey side eyes Archie – ferociously side eyes – he’s working off of about three hours of sleep and is in no mood.  He’s early for the final dress rehearsal, and the universe saw fit to have Archie arrive early too.  So now he has just over thirty minutes to listen to the guy run his mouth.  It’s the day before the big show and while anxieties are sky high for everyone, they’re in the fucking Milky Way for him.  “Not now Archie,” Mickey bites, “in fact, not _ever_.”

“Not sleeping, huh?” Archie says as he plops down in the seat next to him.  Mickey pauses at that comment, because Jesus, is this guy inside his head?

“Maybe,” Mickey says hesitantly before glancing around the auditorium again.

“He ain’t here yet,” Archie blurts. 

Mickey doesn’t need for him to say his name to know he’s referring to Ian.  “Who’s not here?” he asks blandly as he rubs his thumb across his bottom lip.  He plays it dumb.  He plays it cool.  Calm and collected.

“Ian.”

“Wasn’t lookin’,” Mickey responds as he swallows the little dignity he has when he’s around Archie.  The guy manages to always hit the _right_ points at the wrong times.  _Fucker_. 

“Well since you’re not ready to talk about that,” Archie starts as he turns his body in the seat so he’s facing Mickey straight on, “what’s keeping you up at night?”

Mickey scoffs – _loudly_.  Because Archie is an intuitive sonofabitch.  He knows what’s keeping him up.  But before he even thinks about whether or not he wants to answer that – and for some reason he knows he will (Archie’s gifted like that) – Mickey has to know what it is he’s not ready to talk about, especially since it’s involving Ian.  “What am I not ready to talk about?” he finally asks.

“Eh, you know,” Archie says nonchalantly, “liking Ian.”

“I don’t fucking like him,” Mickey barks.  There’s a stab in his voice.  A warning. 

Archie throws his hands up in surrender at the harshness in Mickey’s tone, laughing out.  “Alright, alright.”  He leans back slightly until his lower back is resting on the arm of the seat next to him.  “We’ll table that discussion friend.  How’s dreaming?”

“About?”

“You know, your soulmate?  We all have them Mickey, whether we want them or not,” Archie says confidently as he watches the way the muscles in Mickey’s jaw just jumped.  _Bingo._

“Why you always asking stupid fucking questions?” Mickey asks, now annoyed and praying to God someone else comes in and interrupts them.  But the universe hates him.

Archie chuckles and shrugs, clearly not fazed by how crude Mickey can be.  “It’s my job.”

“To what, personally annoy the hell out of me?”

“Nah,” Archie breathes out as he focuses his eyes on the ceiling at nothing in particular, “to see the things in people they can’t – or refuse to.”  He refocuses his eyes on Mickey, seeing his jaw tighten yet again.  He’s no genius, but he knows body language and ticks well, and he notices trends in people fairly quickly.  Mickey tightening his jaw = truths have just been spoken.

“Well nosey,” Mickey starts, his voice softer.  He purposely ignores what Archie’s just said and decides to oblige him.  “Sleep is shit, and I’m fucking seeing myself in my dreams.  Enough info for ya?”

“Getting there.”  Archie furrows his eyebrows as he narrows his eyes on Mickey.  “You said you’re seeing yourself in your dreams?  What are you doing in them, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I do mind,” Mickey retorts as he turns and raises a brow.  “And why do you wanna know?”

“I’m a curious cat,” Archie smiles.

“Yeah, and you do know what happens to the cat right?”

Archie once again throw his hands up in surrender.  “Just saying man.  If you’re seeing yourself with _the one,_ it could mean that they’re close, or you’ve already met them.”

Mickey thinks for a second at that, and how his soulmate is not just in close proximity, but more than likely one red head who actually works with him.  Although Archie is spot on, as usual, he refuses to divulge any information that could give him away.  “Look, all I’m telling you is that dream me, is a sarcastic sonofabitch.  Real forward and open and shit.”

“Sounds like you’ve got yourself what Jung calls a _sparring partner_ ,” Archie says knowingly. 

“Who?”  Mickey twists his face in confusion, once again feeling lost in the world of Archie and his cryptic lingo – well at least cryptic to him.  “And what the fuck is a sparring partner?  Like, in a boxing ring?”

“Look him up,” Archie says as he turns his head towards a slew of voices entering the auditorium.  “You’ve got a shadow Mickey, and not just a regular shadow,” he continues as he turns to face Mickey again.  “He’s a dark, thick, beasty fucker.  Suffocating – if you let it be.” 

“I’m lost.”

“Your shadow is all of your denials, your ignored desires.  I’m no Psychologist, but I know enough about this shit to know that’s exactly it.  It keeps you on your toes and aware that you’re not fully being who you are,” Archie offers just as he smiles widely at someone approaching Mickey from behind.  “It’s your sparring partner.”  Archie playfully throws a few fake punches into Mickey’s arm, but stops when he scowls madly.

Just as Mickey opens his mouth to tell Archie he’s full of shit, despite knowing deep down he’s far from it, Ian appears in front of him and smiles wide, taking away his ability to articulate anything.  Sparring partner or not, he’s just been knocked out by the way Ian manages to somehow become more beautiful every day.  He freezes, unable to say anything.

“Hey Mick,” Ian says, still smiling.  Mickey’s sure he hates that nickname but it sounds too good coming out of Ian’s mouth.

“Hey,” he says after a pause too long.  Archie makes this dumb look on his face and purposely stands to remove himself.  Mickey knows what he’s doing, and he’s not about to have any of that.  “Off so soon?” Mickey asks Archie.

In all of his mischief, Archie grins.  “Gotta go to my station,” he says slyly.  Mickey stands to follow and takes this opportunity to get the hell out of Ian’s presence.  After all, him and Archie work the same station so who does he think he’s fooling?  But Ian stops him by saying something else.  

“Hey wait a sec,” Ian calls to Mickey who turns.

“Yeah?”

“Look,” Ian starts, a slight blush creeping across his cheeks, “my family just arrived in town today.  I know you don’t have anyone out here with you, so I was wondering if you wanted to come out to dinner with all of us tonight?  It would be like a piece of home – uh – sort of, and…” he trails off awkwardly.  He doesn’t really know what to say after that.  If it weren’t for his family, it would sound like he’s asking Mickey on a date.  And well – he kind of is – but not really.  Ian faces away from Mickey and rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Thanks,” Mickey says as he stares at Ian inquisitively.  Archie’s eyes widen, lined with the hope that Mickey’s about to say ‘yes’ only for his balloon to be deflated when he lets out a silly, “I don’t think I should.”  Ian’s face falls, but he quickly gathers it off of the auditorium floor and covers the disappointment with a smile.

“You sure?” he gives it one last shot.

“Yeah, don’t think any Gallaghers would be too thrilled to have a Milkovich at the table with them,” Mickey offers.  “Besides, it’s their first night in Boston.  You should catch up with them.”

Ian smiles slightly.  It’s forced, but a smile nonetheless.  “Just thought I’d extend the invitation,” he says.

“Thanks again,” Mickey responds as he turns to follow Archie to their station.

“Raincheck?” Ian asks suddenly.  Mickey turns and simply raises a brow, slight smirk on his face, but doesn’t answer.  But his expression is loud and clear.  It’s engaging and not dismissive.  Promising and not pessimistic.  It’s charming.  Ian smiles for real this time, effortless, as he watches Mickey walk off behind Archie. 

 

“You’re an idiot,” Archie says as Mickey enters the lighting booth behind him.

“Thanks,” Mickey answers dismissively, “like knows like.”

Archie turns and crosses his arms as he eyes his co-worker up and down.  He narrows his eyes and shakes his head like a disgruntled mother.  “He just asked you on a date, and you turned him down.”

Mickey’s just about had it.  He rolls his eyes and looks up at the ceiling as he brings a closed fist to his mouth, curled in a menacing grin.  “Ok, one,” he starts, his eyes dark, “he didn’t ask me out on a fucking date, he invited me to dinner with his family.  There’s a difference.  Two – what makes you think I would ever go out with him?  Any guy?  I’d like to know Archie.  Because Christ!”

Archie’s eyes are unmoving.  His stance, rooted.  Solid.  There’s a dangerous confidence surrounding him, thick and filling the air in the small booth space.  Mickey can practically taste it.  “What makes you think, that I would think you wouldn’t?”

_Silence._

Words seem to never know when to find their place with Mickey.  It’s a trend.  And this moment proves no different, falling victim to tendency leant from an unexpressive childhood, and habit forced from an abusive father.  He doesn’t know how to answer that, because toughness means nothing.  Street credit holds no value.  Notches in tattooed knuckles from bones broken proves not a thing.  Southside in his veins speaks no volumes, only muted tones.  Because when it comes to his sexuality, anyone’s sexuality really, exterior and background is null and void.  It’s what’s deep within that counts.  He suddenly finds himself in the ring with himself, this time not needing to be asleep. 

Archie’s hip to the façade and saw through it from day one.

“You remind me so much of him,” Archie finally breaks through the silence.  Mickey doesn’t know who he’s referring to, not yet.  He opens his mouth to finally respond, only for Jim’s voice to blare loudly from the floor, interrupting him. 

_“Places everyone!”_ he yells from below.

Mickey doesn’t know what he would have said anyway.  But he spends the rest of rehearsal wishing he would have said something different to Ian.  Perhaps he could make up for this idiocy at the party after the show tomorrow night.  Yeah – he’ll find his words there.

The right ones this time.

////

“Oh geez we’re so proud of you Ian!” Fiona practically wails into his ear as she suffocates him with her signature hug.  Ian’s in full wardrobe, Ponyboy in the flesh, and moments from having to take his place.  Leave it to the Gallagher clan to somehow find their way backstage to see him off.  Ian credits this to Tony probably using his abilities as a police officer to talk them back there.

“Yeah, nice hair,” Lip picks as he eyes Ian’s wig.  “Didn’t know Greasers had to look like Elvis Pressley.”

“Fuck off Lip,” Ian bites, earning a light smack to the back of his head from Fiona.

“Language around my youngsters!”  Ian smiles as he shoots his eyes to his niece and two nephews who are beaming at the profanity he just let slip.

“Good luck Uncle Ian!” Mason says jovially as he hugs Ian around his thigh.  He’s the youngest out of the three rascals, four years old, but always the most outgoing.  He’s followed by his sister Leah and older brother Oliver who all hug Ian at the same time.

Carl and Debbie make their way over with Liam as Tony and Fi leave backstage with their three to get their seats.  “Hey uh, think you can introduce me to some college girls after the show?” Carl asks, as he eyes the ladies in costume.

“How about wait until you graduate high school next year, and introduce yourself when you go?” Ian responds, earning a disappointed look from Carl.

“Buzzkill,” Carl responds before patting Ian on the back.  “Break a leg or whatever.”

Debbie wraps her arms around Ian’s waist as she hugs him tightly, Liam joining her.  Ian feels himself lean into her embrace realizing how much he missed his younger sister.  She’s such a young woman now.  “Maybe your soulmate will be watching in the audience Ian,” Debbie says as she pulls away, “so do a good job.”  She always knew how important _the one_ was to Ian, who kisses her on the cheek in response.  Not forgetting Liam, he quickly rubs his fingers through his tightly coiled hair before he shoots him a thumbs up, and leaves with Debbie and Carl.

Lip remains in the cut, trying to blend in with the actors, but sticking out like a sore thumb.  Ian notices his older brother squint his eyes the way he does when he’s noticed or figured out something, followed by scratching the back of his neck.  He walks briskly over to Ian after surveying the perimeter.

“Dude,” he starts anxiously, “if my eyes serve me right – and they always do – I think I just saw Mickey fucking Milkovich walk by.  The fuck is that Southside scum bag doing here?”

Ian tries his best to remain civil, and calm.  Lip always manages to say the most arrogant shit.  “One,” Ian says in annoyance, “he’s not a scumbag.  Two, he’s a stage tech.  He works here now.”

“A Milkovich in theater?  Specifically this theater?” Lip asks as he swivels his head around a group of people trying to see if he can get another glance.  “Small world.”  He then looks back at Ian, who has this _look_ on his face.  Lip knows this look – it’s Ian, smitten and already getting himself into trouble.  “I won’t even ask,” he says knowingly, “at least not now.  Just – good luck bro.”

Ian watches Lip waltz off.  He gathers his nerves and takes a deep breath.  Just as he’s about to exhale, he catches a glance of someone in his periphery watching him from the edge of one of the far stage curtains, hidden in the lack of light.  Observant and obscured.  Like a _shadow_.  The silhouette gets bathed by the slightest hint of a dim glow from the Fresnel lighting.  Mickey.  Ian feels his heart jump when he notices him suddenly step back, disappearing behind the thick, black curtain, before re-emerging, walking briskly down the corridor to seemingly make his way to his station.

There’s a wave forming from the infinite number of butterflies flapping in his belly.  It’s Tsunamic.

“Places everyone!” Jim’s voice yells backstage, and everyone begins to scurry hastily like mice.  Everything is now moving in fast forward, but Ian – he’s seeing things in slow motion now.

////

A champagne cork pops somewhere in the mess of actors and staff backstage, resounding over people chattering, still excited from the show just ended.  Ian’s still getting hugs and kisses from cast members, singing his praises, but he can’t even focus on them.  All he can see in Mickey in the background standing next to Archie, who’s saying something to him.

“Here’s to another show well done!” Jim shouts towards the ceiling, tipping his open bottle into the plastic flutes of those standing closest to him.  “Easy now.  There are more bottles on the table there,” he points, and a slew of cast members and stage techs make a b-line for the alcohol.  “And there will be plenty more at my place tonight!”

Ian removes his leather jacket, and rubs his fingers through his damp hair after removing his Greaser hair.  He feels a set of arms hug him from behind, and when he turns, he sees Sophia beaming up at him, her Hepburn eyes endearing and sparkling. 

“You were awesomesauce!” she says as she pulls him down by the back of his neck and squeezes her arms around him.  “Better than the movie, I think!”

“You’re just saying that,” Ian says bashfully just as Eli and Davis emerge.

“I am not,” Sophia says as she shoves Ian on his shoulder playfully.  “You know my ma always taught me, if you’ve got nothing good to say – “

“Don’t say nothing at all,” Eli cuts her off, “Yeah yeah, we know!”  He grabs Ian by his waist and yanks him forward, just as Sophia scowls madly at him.  “You were hot,” he says as he squeezes Ian around his waist, who reddens as a result.  Just as they break apart, Archie waltzes over with ostensibly, his new best friend, Mickey. 

Ian doesn’t even try to be inconspicuous when he sees Mickey, eyes scanning unabashedly up and down his entire frame.  Instead of his usual hoodie, he’s wearing a black V-neck sweater, dark blue jeans and black boots that flare out just beneath his calves.  The dark colors are a stark contrast to his alabaster skin that seems luminescent underneath the stage lights.  There’s also this one tuft of black hair that’s hanging slightly in his face, and it’s so sexy it’s driving Ian insane.

“Eh hem!” Archie loudly clears his throat, snapping Ian out of his fascinated gaze.  He shoots the red head a quick, secret wink before smothering him with a hug.  “You were just _marvelous_ ,” he says, putting extra emphasis on the word ‘marvelous’.  “You all were.  But now for the most important thing – are we all ready for Jim’s?”

Ian turns to face the rest of the crew, before his eyes land on Mickey who quickly shoots his eyes to the floor.  It doesn’t take much for him to realize that he’s obviously been feeding his fascination throughout the evening.  It was simple really – when Ian wasn’t paying attention, Mickey had his space to gaze curiously.

“Yes please,” Sophia groans, “let’s go.  Jim always has the best booze at these things and I need to get plastered.  Who’s responsible for getting me back to my apartment tonight?”

“Um….Charlie maybe?” Eli responds sarcastically.  “He’s your man, call him.  Because I don’t want you throwing up all over my True Religions again like last time.”  Sophia’s a heavy drinker, but such a lightweight when it comes to holding her liquor. 

“He has an early client in the morning, so I will not bother him with my drunkenness.”

“Gosh we’ll figure it out when we get there!” Archie interjects.  “Besides, you know half of the cast is gonna pass out there anyway, you included.  Let’s go already.”

“I’ll catch up with you guys,” Ian says as he remains put, “I have to find my family and tell them I’ll reconnect with them tomorrow.”

Still halfway in costume, Sophia, Eli and Davis all trail behind Archie, leaving Ian _and_ Mickey behind.  Mickey doesn’t follow right away.  He instead turns and looks up at Ian who seems to be looking for his family.  He doesn’t look away this time when the red head turns and looks at him.  Instead, Mickey opens his mouth the way he does when he’s found words _somewhere_.

“Uh, just wanted to say good job tonight,” Mickey finally takes himself off mute.  His tone is awkward and uncertain, as if he’s trying to make sure he’s saying the right thing.  His hands are shoved in his pockets and he’s chewing nervously on his bottom lip.  Ian finds this subdued state of his cute.

“Thanks,” Ian says with a small smile, “I almost forgot one of my lines I was so nervous at one point.  Could you tell?”

“No, I couldn’t.”  Truth be told, Mickey was so busy trying to remain focused and trying to not get too lost in Ian, that he wouldn’t have noticed if he would have started reciting the Pledge of Allegiance.  But he doesn’t need to know that.

Ian tilts his head slightly to the side, his crooked smile lifting up more on one side.  He seems to be studying something about Mickey, and it’s making him slightly uncomfortable.  Ian takes a step towards him and opens his mouth to say something, but is interrupted by a little boy and a little girl practically jumping on his back from behind.

“Uncle Ian!” they shout.  Mickey feels something inside him stutter when Ian scoops the little boy up in one swift motion and kisses him on the nose before bending down and doing the same for the little girl.  The warm feeling quickly freezes when he sees Lip Gallagher come into view and shoot him a smug look.  Their history is – spotted.  Now it’s time for him to go.

Mickey says nothing, only turns to walk away.  “I’ll see you at Jims!” Ian calls out to him, and Mickey turns and nods his head in acknowledgment just as the rest of the Gallaghers and Tony Markovich surround Ian, blocking him from view.

////

Jim’s place is some kind of fancy.  It’s a Penthouse in the Avalon at Prudential, and Mickey’s certain he can fit the entire layout of his house back in Chicago in the living room alone.  Fucking ridiculous.  Everything’s leather and glass and steel.  He’s almost afraid to touch anything.  He’ll leave too many fingerprints, and that won’t be such a good thing, especially since Archie is going to make him hit him over the head with one of Jim’s fancy, glass statues by the end of the night.

There’s no need to leave behind evidence from a murder.

Mickey glances around the room again.  Every big name in Boston Theater is here, so Archie’s told him, mixed in with members of high society, actors and stage hands.  Everyone from the beau monde to the average individual is there, mostly from the Huntington Theatre Company, but there’s a few outsiders and friends of Jim’s.  Outside of being the boss at work, he’s even more laid back, and Mickey was taken aback when he finally saw affections being exchanged between him and Archie earlier.

“Stop being such a killjoy!” Archie practically screams into Mickey’s ear.  The music is loud, but Jesus, that’s no reason to make his eardrum explode.  Archie’s already halfway drunk and trying to make Mickey fucking twerk with him.  Not a chance in hell.

“I like hearing, thanks,” Mickey bites as he covers his ear with his palm.  “And stop asking me to fucking twerk.  Why don’t you go grab Miley the second and third over there,” he says as he points towards Eli and Sophia by the living room window that’s covering an entire wall, overlooking the city.  They seem to be having a twerk-off.

“Perhaps another shot will loosen you up,” Archie says in a slur as he brings a shot of – who knows at this point – to Mickey’s face.  He’s already had two and planned on drinking beers for the rest of the night.  But the way Ian keeps practically getting hemmed up by Abercrombie looking men singing his praises makes Mickey think another shot won’t be such a bad thing.

“What is this?” Mickey asks as he raises a brow at the glass.

Archie shrugs just before downing another shot himself.  “Kettle One, Bacardi, Grey Goose…uh…Ciroc maybe?  Who knows?!  It’s one of them, and I don’t remember,” he laughs as he plops back on the couch next to Mickey, laying his head on his shoulder.  Mickey feels himself seize up from the contact.  But he closes his eyes and tosses the shot back.  He makes a grimace before shaking it off.  He catches Ian watching him from the kitchen area where some blonde dude is seemingly talking about uninteresting things to him.

His face is a mixture of bored and longing.

“He’s popular, huh?” Mickey says as he points his head in Ian’s direction.

Archie turns himself in the couch to get a glimpse of who Mickey’s referring to and smiles stupidly when he sees it’s Ian.  He faces Mickey and begins to bat his eyelashes.  “He’s the star tonight,” Archie responds as he leans his head back.  “Unfortunately when you’re the main character in productions like this, you get pulled this way and that way,” he continues as he uses his hands to animate what he’s saying, “and you find yourself talking to big names in theater, possibly movie agents.  It could be a good thing career wise, but most of these people can be quite the bore.”

“Well it looks like these guys are interested in more than his career,” Mickey lets slip.  It’s an uncontrolled comment, primitive – it’s envious.

“Do I sense some jealousy?!” Archie beams, earning a death glare from Mickey.

“Where’s the bathroom in this place?” Mickey deflects and asks Archie who’s now shaking to some horrid dance song that just came on.  “Gotta take a piss.”

“The first one is down that hall there, second door on the left,” Archie says still moving to the music.  “If it’s occupied, there’s the one in Jim’s master suite at the end of the hall.”

“Thanks,” Mickey says as he stands.  He feels himself sway slightly, the buzz from the alcohol being sneaky and trying to take it’s time, but Mickey knows it’ll be hitting him harder soon.

He makes his way through the crowd of people, and he’s certain he’s felt a hand against his ass intentionally.  He can’t be so sure, but he knows the difference between a hand just bumping into someone accidentally and the feel of fingers trying to grab.  He doesn’t even have the patience to address it, so he keeps moving. 

Of course the first bathroom is occupied, and by the sound of it, it’s not being used for what it’s meant for.  Mickey hears two voices and muffled laughter, followed by something falling over in there.  He rushes to Jim’s master suite and opens the door, his eyes nearly bulging out of his head at how massive it is.  There’s also a wall in there that’s nothing but window, and the bed is probably four of his put together, complete with massive columns.  Jim obviously has a penchant for Grecian design. 

Feeling his bladder throbbing, he sighs with relief when he sees that the bathroom is unoccupied.  He enters and closes the door slightly, but doesn’t bother turning the bathroom light on, the light spilling from the bedroom more than enough for him.  As he finally relieves himself, he closes his eyes and gets lost in the dark of the bathroom.  He flushes but doesn’t move right away, needing to re-charge before going back out there. 

After about a minute of standing in silence he turns to make his way to the sink, only to be startled by the bathroom door swinging open and closing quickly.  Mickey feels his fists ball reflexively as he prepares to strike whatever idiot decided to burst in there before turning the lights on.  He feels trapped.  He hears a few breaths escape the mystery person before the light finally turns on.  Mickey nearly stumbles backwards when the first thing he sees is red hair.

It’s Ian.

“Oh shit!” Ian yells, clearly startled himself.  “I thought it was no one in here.  I – I’ll leave.”

“No need,” Mickey says as he washes his hands, finally calm.  “I was just leaving.”  He then looks back over at Ian, who has this flustered look on his face.  “Something wrong?”

“What isn’t?” Ian asks rhetorically.  “I don’t even have to use the bathroom, I just had to break away for a while.  If I have to listen to one more queen talk about the greatest Broadway scores or Stephen Sondheim for another minute, I’m gonna fucking blow my top.”

A chuckle escapes Mickey’s chest at that.  “Thought you theater people liked talking about shit like that.”

“Well would you look at that,” Ian says as he crosses his arms, leaning against the bathroom door, “someone in this industry who shatters your stereotype.”  Ian smirks, and it’s dangerous, and suddenly Mickey feels the space closing in on him.  “Don’t get me wrong, I love theater, but I hate talking about musicals ad nauseam – any longer and I swear they were gonna burst out in a number from _Company_ or _Follies_.”

“Well you could always hide out in Jim’s massive bedroom,” Mickey quips, “I’m certain you could get lost in there somewhere.”

“I could,” Ian says, his voice daringly low, “but I don’t wanna be in there alone for the rest of the night.”  Mickey feels like he’s being suggestive and flirting now, and it’s time for him to book.  He scoffs and doesn’t answer that, feeling baited.  He walks up to the bathroom door, still blocked by a towering Ian who still has his arms crossed, refusing to move.

“You mind if I get by?” Mickey asks, his brows raised to the ceiling.  Normally he’d make anyone else move, but he can’t seem to bring himself to _touch_ Ian.

“What’s the magic word?” Ian asks slyly.

“You’ve got to be kidding – “ Mickey cuts himself off before running his hand through his hair, “How about _move_?”  Despite trying to sound menacing, Mickey knows he sounds like a little girl right now, begging for her daddy to give her more ice cream.

“Uh uh,” Ian shakes his head.

Having had about enough, Mickey suddenly just grabs the doorknob.  Ian’s close – too close, but he can’t seem to find himself minding.  There’s a struggle, as Ian is still pressed up against the door.  Mickey’s not looking at him, but can see him in his periphery, complacent as shit – grounded and certain.  Dangerous.  Mickey lets out a disgruntled breath, and smiles madly in surrender.

“Alright, fuck,” he sneers, “please?”  He makes the fatal mistake of finally looking up at Ian who acquiesces and lets up off of the door.  His eyes makes his legs turn to cinderblocks, and before Mickey can gather himself to take off, Ian lunges forward, cups his face and kisses him.

_What the fuck._

Mickey’s caught off guard, his back hitting the tiled wall, but he doesn’t fight it at first.  He instead allows Ian’s tongue to trespass in his mouth, exploring the space like he knows it.  It’s a wild and uncalculated intrusion.  Animalistic.  Ian loops his fingers through Mickey’s belt loops and something suddenly gives, or _clicks_ inside him.  It feels too right.  He allows the kiss to happen for barely a minute right before he sees _himself_ behind his closed eyelids smirking at him.  He panics and pushes Ian off of him, who nearly loses his footing from the sudden force.  

Mickey stands up straight, not looking at Ian as he rubs his thumb across his bottom lip.  “I gotta go,” he says suddenly, leaving Ian in the bathroom disappointed and confused.  Mickey storms out of the bathroom cursing at himself under his breath. 

////

“What’s wrong with you?” Archie asks Mickey who storms by him and grabs the first vodka bottle he sees off of one of the drink tables.  He’s seemingly upset about something, a flushed red on his cheeks.

“Nothing,” Mickey responds shortly before tipping the bottle back.  He takes a few large gulps before wincing from the familiar burn.  Archie frowns, then notices Ian storm into the other end of the living room, mirroring what Mickey just did, grabbing a bottle.  Instead, he pours some in a tumbler and downs it all in one go.  Archie knowingly looks at Mickey, then at Ian, then back to Mickey.  He’s fucking drunk, but his third eye is twitching.

“I’m gonna go over by Ian while he’s unoccupied,” Archie slurs.  He walks over to Ian, who quickly puts on a forced smile.

Mickey turns and looks in their direction for a second, Ian’s eyes already on him.  He snaps his head back around and looks out into the city night, his fingers on his left hand curling angrily into the fabric of his jeans as he tips the bottle back with his right.  He’s pissed he let that kiss happen.  He’s pissed his guard temporarily came down.  He’s pissed he wants to go back and do it again.

He’s pissed Ian tastes so good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience with this (really, I should apologizing for "In This Room" which is next in line for an update). Life has been - well, life. No need for me to explain it, when we all live it, right? I've tied a few things around my ankles which in turn have slowed me down, and essentially tied my hands. I just hope the update is more than sub par. While still listening to Lianne La Havas, as mentioned above, I mainly wrote this chapter to the songs, "Sleep Baby Sleep" and "Taking You There" by Broods (so appropriate). Mickey is a piece of work, but we all know this, but Ian's up to the challenge. Things should get interesting.... Thanks for reading everyone. I always appreciate it. :)))
> 
> I'm at penprowess.tumblr.com <3


	5. The Reemergence of Wesley Brighton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He stares at himself in the mirror, but he doesn’t look too long – he may _actually_ see himself in there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me just say I live for Archie. He's my very own Emmett Honeycutt...

An annoying piercing light bleeds through his eyelids, causing him to open them.  The sunlight reaches through the cracks of the fancy blinds over the massive window, letting him know its morning.  Mickey grunts, fresh out of sleep and into a splitting headache – he’s hung-over.  He curses under his breath as he maneuvers in a bed seemingly not his, the mattress way too plush and easy on his bones.  The sheets are pastel and soft, and don’t make his skin itch.  Definitely not his bed.  It takes him a minute to gather his bearings, realizing he’s more than likely still at Jim’s place.  But how the hell did he get in this bed?  The end of last night is still a perfect blur.

He moves again, unable to lift up from an unknown weight around his waist.  He looks down and sees an arm clinging tightly around him – a freckled arm – attached to someone behind him.  _Shit_.  He has to be dreaming again.  Except, he isn’t.  The person behind him stirs slightly, but stills again, falling back into a deep sleep.  Mickey finally maneuvers so he can cast his eyes on the mystery behind him.  They’re still obscured by way too may covers, but Mickey nearly loses his shit when he catches an all too familiar glimpse of red hair peeping from underneath the fancy duvet.  He fixes his mouth to spit out expletives, only to be caught off guard by a blaring voice bursting into the bedroom.

“Rise and _shiiiiine!”_ Archie sings in his best opera voice as he enters the bedroom.  Mickey cringes, the decibel level not agreeing with his current state.  His head nearly splits.  He eyes Archie, who’s wearing this ridiculous robe that looks as if he borrowed it off of the set of Golden Girls.  All that’s missing are the hair rollers.  The brunette looks slyly at Mickey and waltzes over towards the windows, hitting some button on the side of them which causes the blinds to automatically open.

“The fuck!” Mickey yelps as even more sunlight punches him in the face.  He looks down at Ian – fucking Ian – who hasn’t even stirred from the Archie’s horrendous attempt at serenading them awake. 

Archie makes his way over to the bed, an evil grin on his face.  “How’d you sleep Princess?” he quips as he grips Mickey’s shoulders and squeezes.  The Southside brute flinches from the contact and shoots a blood-thirsty glare at Archie.  He looks like he may strike at any moment.  Damn deadly.  “Whoa, whoa,” Archie says as he backs up, placing his hands on his hips, “easy there grumpelstiltskin.  Just trying to brighten your morning, given your night.”

There are so many questions in Mickey’s jumbled brain, he doesn’t even know where to start, so he opens with the most pressing.  “How the fuck did I end up in this bed with Sleeping Beauty here,” he motions his head towards Ian, still knocked out and apparently in la-la land.  Archie smiles like the Joker from Batman, crossing his arms as he peers around Mickey to get a glimpse of one, all too peaceful ginger.

“Well,” Archie starts, flipping imaginary hair out if his face.  “Last night – “

“Hold that thought,” Mickey cuts him off, suddenly not wanting to know.  He was drunk out of his mind, and Ian probably was too, from what he could remember, so how they ended up in this bed together was something too early for him to hear right now.  “On second thought, I don’t wanna know,” Mickey groans.  He then pierces Archie with a threatening look.  “And I swear if you set us up like this on purpose,” he points, “I’ll burn your Liza Minnelli collection.  I saw it in Jim’s room last night and I know it’s yours.”

Archie places his hand over his chest as he lets out startled gasp, his eyes the size of saucers.  “You wouldn’t dare,” he says stunned as he grips the fuzzy robe fabric, balling it nervously in his fist.  “Mickey baby!  Do you not love me?”

Mickey snorts, more amused at the theatrics of Archie.  “No, I don’t,” he picks.  Archie’s eyes widen even more, and Mickey can’t help but ease his apparent pain.  “I don’t hate you,” he finally offers, granting Archie a sense of relief.

“You love me,” he grins victoriously.

“Stop deflecting!” Mickey huffs.  “I’m fucking serious.  I swear you better not have had anything to do with this or you can kiss Liza goodbye.  In fact, if I catch you up to your little antics at all.”  At that moment, Ian stirs, removing his arm from around Mickey’s waist, which he didn’t even notice was still around him.  It’s like it was supposed to be there.

“Calm down,” Archie says as he leans against the edge of the bed.  “Nothing happened.”

“Nothing?” Mickey asks, feeling relief washing over him.

“Yeah my little pit bull, nothing.  Not that it would have been a bad thing if it did,” Archie offers.  “In fact, you two started continents apart on completely opposite sides of this massive bed, mind you.  How you ended up spooning is beyond me and all on you two.”  Archie then looks over at Ian who seems to be coming out of sleep slowly.  He’s known the red head long enough to know he’s a heavy sleeper.  A real rock.  World War III could break loose, and he would still be in dreamland.  “You two seemed to be competing for who could get the most shit-faced last night,” Archie says as he looks back at Mickey.  “You wanna talk about it?”

“Talk about what?” Mickey asks, rubbing the pads of his fingers over his throbbing eyes.

“Why you were an antsy mess after coming from the bathroom last night.”

“No reason.”

Archie looks suspiciously at that, but lets it slide, knowing he’ll have more than enough time to work the truth out of Mickey.  “Anywho,” he continues, “eventually you and Ian got so drunk, you both passed out.  That is, after you two stopped shooting stabbing glances at each other, going shot for shot, and – “  Archie suddenly cuts himself off, not finishing his sentence.  He gnaws on his bottom lip apprehensively as he looks at Mickey adamantly.

“Oh God,” Mickey says, already knowing its some shit, “and what Archie?  Why’re you staring at me like that?”

“And after you – _twerked_.”  The last word seemed to echo loudly in the guest bedroom, and Mickey found himself wanting to scream.

“What?!  I twerked?!” Mickey freaks.  “No, no, I don’t believe you for one fucking minute!  I don’t fucking twerk!” he continues, hysterical.

“Mickey you were drunk!  Who gives a shit?!” Archie offers, but there was no consolation for Mickey.  “Ian was dancing quite suggestively with Eli, intentionally I think, and you…I don’t know…something in you seemed to snap and you stumbled over towards an even more drunk Sophia and started twerking with her, as if trying to out-dance Ian and Eli.”

Mickey’s eyes widened in absolute horror.  Was he in the fucking Twilight Zone?  “No fucking way!  That’s bullshit!”

“Get jealous much?”

“Wh-what?  Shit…no…I… _whatever_!” Mickey finally manages to spit out.

“Relax babe,” Archie attempts to soothe, “I’m sure most people were too drunk to remember anyways.  You passed out minutes after a valiant attempt I might add.” 

“I remember,” a groggy voice emerges from the shadows.  Ian removes the covers from in front of his face as he sits up and shoots a confused look at Mickey.  “Although I don’t remember much after that.  How’d we end up in bed together?”  Ian doesn’t sound nearly as upset as Mickey did when he’d asked.  In fact, he sounds pretty content – excited almost.  “What happened?”

“Sadly, nothing,” Archie answers, clearly disappointed.

“Fuck!” Mickey breathes out as he rubs both of his hands over his face.  “Are you serious right now?”

Archie then brings his hand behind Mickey’s back and begins to rub it calmingly.  “Now, now honey, it’ll be alright.  Mama’s here.”

“No it won’t,” Mickey groans as he gets out of the bed, “I’m officially emasculated and I blame you!”

“Moi?” Archie asks incredulous.  “Why moi?  And since when is it emasculating to twerk?!  I do it all the time!” Archie frowns.

“You’re fucking rubbing off on me,” Mickey barks as he looks downward, seeing he’s only in his boxers.  Archie simply looks satisfied from his comment.  “And where the fuck are my pants?!”

“Jim and I removed them when we put you an Ian in the bed last night.  He’s funny about guests wearing jeans in his beautiful linen.  Here they are, nicely folded,” Archie smiles as he hands Mickey his jeans.  “Nice legs.”

“Christ!” Mickey yells as he shucks on his pants and begins to stumble out of the room.

“Where are you going my love?!” Archie calls out to him.

“Away from this fucking place!” Mickey barks, still pulling up his jeans.  He grabs his boots from by the door, nearly tripping over his own two feet.

“But Jim’s making us all Sunday brunch!  You can’t miss brunch!” Archie continues as he follows behind him.  Mickey doesn’t respond, only offers his middle finger before quickly shooting a glance over towards Ian who’s obviously enjoying the show, a smirk on his face.  God he looked good in the morning.  Mickey inwardly curses at himself for noticing that before making his way out of the bedroom.  Archie runs behind him, dramatically gripping the door frame with both of his hands.  He stretches one arm outward as if reaching towards Mickey, belting out a, “Goodbye my love!”

A huge snort escapes Ian’s mouth as Archie turns back around, straightening his robe.  He brushes back his brown hair with one hand, seemingly composing himself.  “You’re in the wrong sect of theater, you know that?” Ian laughs.  “Lighting and stagecraft?  Archie, I think your calling is _on_ the stage,” Ian quips.

“Well now babes,” Archie grins as he waltzes slowly up to Ian, “my life _is_ the stage.  Besides, no man-made rostrum is big enough for a starlet like myself.”

“Or your severe stage fright,” Ian says jokingly.   Except it really isn’t a joke, but the truth.  Everyone knows theater runs through Archie’s veins, and despite being an unabashed character in real life, he gets violently sick if he has to perform in front of crowds of people.  His stage work is genius however, more than making up for him not acting.

Archie laughs and slaps a hand playfully against Ian’s chest.  “That too,” he smiles.

“Care to explain what _really_ happened last night?” Ian asks.  “I know you Archie, you’re too clever for your own good.  I know you didn’t tell Mickey everything.”

Archie smirks demurely as he brings a hand up and cups one of Ian’s cheeks.  “Why darling, a good girl never tells.”

“You’re something else, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told,” Archie preens.  “Anyway, our dear friend Mickey may have made a little… _confession_ to me last night in the heat of a moment.  Really, he was just drunk out of his mind.  But still.”

Ian cocks his head to the side, already curious about this little admission.  “Care to share?  I know you want to,” Ian says as he scoots closer to Archie who’s practically bursting at the seams with information, “besides you love me, right?”  His voice is like butter, an alluring smile on his lips.  Archie lets outs a surrendering breath because Ian knows he could charm the pants off of Rosie O’Donnell if he tried.

“Well…” Archie trails off, tempted.  He turns to lean in towards Ian’s ear, ready to divulge before jolting back all of a sudden, electrocuted from a stunning revelation.  “I can’t!” he yelps, almost falling victim to the inescapable charm Ian Gallagher.

“Why not?”

“I must protect Liza at all costs!” Archie shrieks dramatically.  “And if your little thug dreamboat finds out I said anything to anyone, he’s sure to do away with her.  Ian, I love you, but I love Liza more.  I’m so sorry.”  And with that Archie straightens his back, tightens his robe and waltzes out of the door, leaving Ian cackling to himself on the bed.  He would get it out of him, eventually.

So he and Mickey didn’t hook up, but one thing did come out of last night.  Ian rubs his hands through his hair as he mulls over his dream, reveling not just in the fact that the guy didn’t disappear this time, but at yet another feature.  He smiles to himself as he thinks about it over and over.

_Black hair._

////

“Where the hell have you been?” Lip asks Ian as he enters his apartment.  He’s still sprawled out on his couch, obviously having yet to get up.  Ian had given him his spare key after the show yesterday night so he could get in.

Ian side-eyes his brother and glances down at his watch.  “Out,” Ian says before glancing back up at Lip.  “And why aren’t you up yet?  It’s almost 1pm.”

“Well, being it’s Sunday and all, and I don’t make appointments with Jesus, I was sleeping in,” Lip answers sarcastically, “or trying to.  You had a visitor about a half hour ago.”

“A visitor?” Ian asks somewhat perplexed.  Other than his family, he wasn’t expecting anyone this weekend.

“Yeah, visitor,” Lip reiterates, “a real yuppie, dipshit type.  Had the most narcissistic attitude.”

“More narcissistic than you?” Ian chides as he treks into his bathroom to take his meds late and grab some much needed aspirin.  He hears Lip let out a snort in the living room, clearly not planning to acknowledge he too suffers from chronic self-inflation.  “Well who was it?”

“Some guy named…uhh…Wesley.”

Ian runs out of his bathroom with an open bottle of aspirin, nearly spilling every pill on the floor.  “You for real?” Ian asks incredulous.  He only knows one Wesley.

“Last time I checked,” Lip replies.  “He said he wanted to surprise you being he hasn’t seen you since the glory days at BU.  Really?  Glory days Ian?  Who says shit like that?”

Ian smiles as he thinks back to his days in college, the craziness he used to get into with this guy.  “Wesley Brighton,” Ian responds as he looks at Lip, “my college roommate.  The reason I even got into theater.  Last time I spoke to him was through an e-mail right before I moved into this place.”

“I dare you guy?” Lip asks as he eyes his younger brother, who’s now smiling like a schoolgirl with a crush.

“Yeah,” Ian responds, “I dare you guy.” 

Wesley Brighton was the one that dared Ian to try out for the Boston University production of Grease, which wasn’t a shocker, given his favorite initiating phrase for almost everything was, _“I dare you.”_   He loved daring people to do shit he didn’t think they would follow through on.  He lost to Ian’s fearlessness every time.  A reminiscent smile spreads across Ian’s face as he remembers the shenanigans they used to get into, before a more serious look nearly erases it.  Suddenly he remembers the last _‘I dare you’_ and the memory comes crashing down on him.  Like a brick.

“Oh God,” Lip says as he takes in the look on his brother’s face.  “You used to fuck him or something?”

Ian blinks frantically at that, looking as if he’d just been insulted.  “What?  Why are things like this always sex with you Lip?”

“Isn’t everything?” he asks indignantly.  “And you’ve got that look Ian, and I know _that_ look.  You could potentially want this guy.”

“It’s none of your business Lip,” Ian defends.  “He was my roommate, nothing more.  Besides, last time I checked, he was engaged – to a woman.”

“That means jack shit nowadays,” Lip continues to press.  “Ever heard of bisexuals?”

Now fed up with the conversation, Ian waves Lip off.  “I know that Lip,” he defends.  “Did he say if he was coming back?”

“Aren’t we eager,” Lip jibes, earning a serious eye roll from Ian.  “Said he was in town for a while and would be in touch.  He knows you’re at Huntington.”

“Right,” Ian says as he takes two aspirin, “pretty sure I’ll be hearing from him.”

Ian grabs a bottle of water before making his way over to sit on the couch.  He takes a few gulps before smiling idly at nothing in particular.  “What are you smiling about?” Lip asks.

“Huh?” Ian says, clearly in his own world.

“What – are – you – smiling – about?” Lip asks again, this time mockingly slow. 

“I was smiling?” Ian asks, not realizing he was.  “I wasn’t smiling Lip.”

“Sure you weren’t.  You mouth was just trying to split your face in half,” Lip continues, “so c’mon Ian, what the hell’s got you seeing dandelions?”

Ian lets out an exasperated breath and decides to just spit it out.  “I like someone, alright?  Is that ok with you?”

With anyone else, this admission would have been just fine, but this is Lip.  “This Wesley guy?”

“No Lip, he’s just a good buddy of mine from college.”

“Then who is it?”  Lip is as persistent as he is egotistical.  Ian knows going blow for blow with him to try and withhold anything is a losing battle.  Besides, Lip is the one person who knows virtually everything about him.  In and out.  Up top and underneath.

“Mickey Milkovich,” Ian answers lowly.  He places his hands on the couch and braces for what he’s sure will be a real tongue lashing from his brother.

Instead, Lip simply grunts as he thumbs his temple.  He looks away for a minute, apparently going inside of his head which is even more frightening for Ian.  After lulling for too long to be comfortable, Lip finally faces Ian.  “It’s your funeral man,” he finally says.

“What?  How is it my funeral?” Ian asks, not surprised at all by Lip’s comment, but more annoyed.

“Mickey fucking Milkovich?  He’s nothing but trouble Ian, a real asshole,” Lip says as he stands.  “And how do you even know if he’s into guys?”

“Trust me, he is,” Ian responds as he thinks back to the way Mickey kissed him back in the bathroom at Jim’s – even if it was only for a minute.  It was easy for people to be dishonest with words, but a kiss never lies.  It can’t.  It’s as close to truth as one could get with another person.  Raw, primitive honesty.

“Even if he is!” Lip says, his voice louder now, “Don’t be silly Ian.  You can’t get involved with that.  He comes from a family of psychotic, evil, homophobic pricks.  Not to mention Terry is his father.  He’s damaged goods.”

Feeling angry now, Ian stands and makes his way to his room.  “Damaged goods?” he asks beyond incredulous.  “Lip, everyone’s damaged goods in one way or another.”

“Yeah but some are beyond repair.”

“And I’m not?”  This time, Lip’s face falls.  He’s unable to respond right away, because not only is Ian referring to himself as damaged goods, but he seems to find himself not able to be mended.  “Besides, you don’t have a pot to piss in Lip.”

“Oh, and why’s that?”

“Two words,” Ian starts as he sticks out his chin, “Karen Jackson.”

Lip’s eyes grow wide.  It’s a low blow he was unprepared to take.  “She’s irrelevant to this conversation,” he answers plainly, pretending to be unmoved.    

“I’d say she’s very relevant.  She did everything she possibly could to destroy you, and I warned you.  Yet, you kept going back like an idiot.  Then you were a father, and then you weren’t.  Remember that?”  Lip simply shrugs, doing his best to discredit Ian’s misgivings.  Deep down he knows he’s struck a nerve with his brother, but Lip’s always been a pro at hiding how he feels when it’s convenient.  Giving up, Ian waves him off.  “I knew you wouldn’t understand,” Ian says as he walks away. 

“Oh don’t go locking yourself in your room like a ten year old!” Lip calls out to him.  “Besides, we have to go meet the others!  Don’t ruin your family’s last day in Boston by being a big baby!”

“Fuck you!” Ian shouts through the crack of his door before slamming it.  He huffs and puffs and he paces his room floor a few revolutions, before sitting on his bed.  He feels himself slightly unhinged from being absentminded and forgetting to bring his meds with him to Jim’s, and Lip’s making it worse by being a dick.  But perhaps he was right – Mickey would be nothing but a slow death for him.  But what if he was _the one_? 

At this point, Ian’s not so sure about anything anymore.

////

“Jesus Ian, you look like a ghost,” Fiona says as she fights with the cheese dangling from one of her mozzarella sticks.  It’s one heck of a battle as she continues to pull on what seems like an endless string of gluey goodness.

Ian hasn’t touched his food, not even a bread stick.  He hasn’t eaten since a muffin from brunch earlier at Jim’s loft.  Biology says he should be hungry, but psychology has other plans.  “Not hungry,” Ian says with the best droopy face possible.

“Christ Ian,” Lip chides from across the table, “would you quit with the mopey shit already?  We don’t wanna spend our last day visiting you for probably, I don’t know, the next two years, seeing you look like your life is over.”

“Fuck you Lip,” Ian responds, earning a confused look from Fiona.

She finishes chewing the food in her mouth, before taking a gulp of her soda, eyebrows furrowed.  It was her concerned mom look.  “What is it with you two today, huh?  You’ve been giving each other the cold shoulder since we all got together,” she asks.

“Oh nothing,” Lip says first, “Ian’s just upset he has poor taste in who he chooses to develop feelings for.”

“And you don’t?” Ian retorts angrily.  “You have no right telling me who I can and can’t like.”

“Just looking out for you that’s all.  We all know your track record is worse than mine.”

“Like I said, fuck you,” Ian bites angrily.

“Ditto!” Lip shouts from across the table.

Fiona throws down her napkin, and nearly stands.  “Enough you two!  Jesus, I thought you were grown men now.  You sound ten and twelve again!  And you both know how I feel about profanity around my kids.”

Ian rolls his eyes before glancing around at his niece and nephews.  They’re beaming from ear to ear, the way they always do when someone lets profanity slip.  “Sorry Fi,” Ian apologizes.  Lip simply scoffs.  Prideful.

“Don’t say sorry,” Fiona responds, “eat something.”

“I’m not hungry Fi.”

“Then make yourself hungry.”

“Can I have your mozzarella sticks Uncle Ian?!” Mason grins, already reaching his hand into Ian’s plate.

“Sure thing M&M.”  The four year old exposes even more teeth at the nickname his uncle gave him from his first name and last name initials, ready to enjoy his reward, only for Fiona to slide the plate from arms reach.

“I don’t think so Mason.  You’ve had four already and the main courser hasn’t even gotten here yet.”  Fiona shoots Ian a glance, and he gets the hint.  No more offering his uneaten appetizer to his four year old nephew prone to gluttony.  “Wanna talk about whatever it is that’s going on?” she finally asks.

Ian frowns at that, because the entire family doesn’t need to hear about his pining over one Southside thug with lips bound to be the cause of multiple deaths.  He had a Therapist for things like venting his frustrations and whatnot.  “I like someone,” he says nonchalantly, “that’s all.  No big deal.”

“Is it _the_ _one_?” Debbie asks, and this causes everyone’s face – sans Lip – to light up as if it were Christmas.  It’s known how much a soulmate means to Ian, and goodness, he’s starting to feel like a pathetic sap about it, the way his younger sister studies him expectantly with her big, endearing eyes.  Even Carl waits hopefully.

“No Debs,” Ian begins, “well, at least I don’t think so.  I-I don’t know.”

“Don’t worry, he’ll come,” Debbie reassures him with a mature smile, and for some reason, Ian feels that elusiveness he always carries for the mystery in his dreams get just a bit lighter.

“Christ, enough with the romanticizing,” Lip kills the moment.  “He likes Mickey Milkovich, that’s all,” he blurts out and Ian feels he can fly across the table and strangle him. 

Fiona and Tony’s eyes grow wide, while Carl and Debbie just stare.  Liam could care less because he was probably too young to be judgmental about the things the Milkovich did in his younger years.  This time however, Tony speaks, having become more than acquainted with Terry and his sons.  “Mickey Milkovich Ian?” Tony says, his face in slight disbelief.  I’m a regular at their household.  That family name is synonymous with trouble.”

“Tony’s right Ian, I don’t like it, and I can’t pretend that I do,” Fiona chimes in.

“He’s in Boston?” Tony asks and Ian thinks briefly about lying.  But he knows Lip will blow his cover.

“He works at the theater with me now,” Ian answers reluctantly, “in stage and lighting.”

“Goodness, small world,” Fiona says, sounding identical to Lip.  “Well, he is not a good choice Ian.  I’m sorry.”

Ian takes her sorry and pockets it, because maybe it will come in handy later when it actually means something. 

He then looks at Lip across the table, figurative pitchfork in his hand and actual horns sticking out of his fucking head.  He’s Lucifer.  Prince of darkness.  Complacency has to be in his bloodstream.  Ian sticks his middle finger up at Lip, before glancing around the table at his family, and it dawns on him why he always gets stressed before they come to visit.  They treat him as if he’s an emotional invalid, unable to make his own, sound decisions – just like their mother.  Debbie’s always been the only one who goes to bat for him.  He’s been fairly stable on his meds for almost a year now, his previous downward spiral something of the past.  He’d spiraled worse when he was seventeen and came out of it.  They should have more faith in him by now.

_Wishful thinking._

“Well, since I’ve heard what you all think, mind if we kill this conversation?” Ian says as he makes his fingers dance nervously on the table.  Agitated.  “Nice to know you all voice what’s best for me, since I seem to never know what I want.”

“Ian, we didn’t – “

“It’s alright Fi,” Ian cuts her off, “I get it.  Always have.”

Silence falls around them for a few, eternal moment, and Ian finds himself wanting to jump out of his chair and leave.  Everyone is looking at him awkwardly, Lip has his damage control look on his face that communicates to Ian that he’s still his brother and is just looking out for him.  All bullshit to Ian at this point.  He just wants someone to trust him for a change when it comes to his feelings, instead of always dissecting them with a scalpel.

The main courses finally come out, creating more ease at the table as everyone gets their food.  Fiona shoots an apologetic look at Ian ever so often, but he rejects them with a turn of his head.  He loves his sister, but he hates the way she jumps to conclusions concerning him sometimes.  They eat in silence for a while, the only sounds being forks hitting the china, and the ever so often, “Can you pass the salt?”

Ian takes on bite of his chicken parmigiana, before unceremoniously dropping his fork, the food swelling in his mouth.  Debbie looks at him, obviously feeling for him.  She glances around at everyone at the table, the unrest of no one besides her speaking up for her brother getting to her.  She wipes her mouth with her napkin, and decides to speak, getting everyone out of their food trance.

“Mickey Milkovich could be _the_ _one_ you know,” she says to everyone around the table.  Fiona and Tony shoot her a look, but that doesn’t make her cease and desist.  “He could be,” Debbie continues, “and what will you say then?”

Fiona and Tony look at each other, obviously resigning to the fact that this could be a possibility, despite how out in left field it sounds.  Lip rolls his eyes, certain this could never be the case.  Ian looks at Debbie, silently thanking her with his eyes, and he begins to eat more of his food as she smiles at him.

Mickey Milkovich, soulmate?   _Maybe_.

////

“My sweet thug muffin, how I’ve missed you.”

Mickey rolls his eyes and groans, not needing to turn to see who the culprit of that ridiculous greeting is.  “Archie,” he greets back, still not turning to acknowledge him.

Archie sits in the row directly in front of Mickey, sure for him to get a clear view, and swivels to shoot him a pointed look.  “What?  Don’t you miss me too?”

“I just saw you yesterday,” Mickey scoffs, leaning back into the auditorium seat.  He crosses his arms and proceeds to have the ultimate stare down with Archie, who does this insane pout with his lips.  “Oh my God, fine!” Mickey caves, “I miss you, alright?  Now stop poking your lips out like that, you’re making me nervous.”

Archie smiles, once again victorious, having brought down the Great Wall of Mickey Milkovich.  It’s a talent of his he’s beginning to take much pride in.  “Recover ok from yesterday?” he finally asks.  He gets a half mumble from Mickey, who simply bites his lip, refusing to truly answer that.  He would cease and desist for the moment, because it was after all quite shocking for him to wake up next to Ian.  He would press it too much.  “Well, whenever you’re ready, I’m here to be your therapist.”

“Ready for what?” Mickey makes the mistake of asking.

“To talk about yesterday, you know, waking up to your secret admirer, and quite frankly your ultimate dream crush,” Archie says confidently.  He then shoots Mickey a knowing look, which makes him uncomfortable and paranoid. 

_Ultimate dream crush._

“The fuck you gettin’ at?” Mickey asks as he leans forward.  He’s beginning to feel exposed, hoping to God he didn’t say anything stupid or too telling to Archie when he was drunk the other night.

“Well, you know,” Archie says as he makes his eyebrows wiggle.  Mickey opens his mouth to respond but snaps it shut when he hears voices enter the auditorium.  Before they get close, Archie takes his index finger and thumb, making a zipping motion across his lips to assure Mickey his lips are sealed.  It’s bothersome to Mickey however, being he doesn’t know what the hell his lips are sealed about.  Leaving it alone for the time being, he turns to see Sophia and Ian trudging slowly down the aisle and his heart beat gets just a little faster when Ian’s eyes light up at the sight of him.  Sophia’s face remains in a frown.

“Happy Monday to you too,” Archie says to a brooding Sophia.  She cuts her eyes at him, and lets out a loud groan as she practically throws herself into the seat next to him.  “What’s wrong with you?”

“What isn’t?” she responds, taking off her conductor’s cap.  Her normally well-kept curls are slightly disheveled and there are slight bags underneath her eyes.

“Relationship issues?”

“No,” she says as she leans her head back into the back of the seat, “that is actually as pretty close to perfect as it can get.  Charlie is amazing.  It’s me.  I spent all day yesterday puking my guts up, while trying to select my courses for next semester.  I’m never drinking again.”

“You still in college?” Mickey asks, and Sophia nods her head ‘yes.’

“I go to Northeastern,” Sophia says as she turns towards Mickey, “it’s a Co-Op University, and we have these schedules where you work in the field you’re studying for six months, then you’re back in class for another six, each year, until you graduate.  It’s a five year program.  I go back to classes in January, so I won’t be here as heavily.”

“That time of year already, huh?” Ian asks. 

“Yeah, unfortunately,” Sophia says as he massages her temples.  “How’s the family?”

“On a plane back to Chicago,” Ian says, sounding almost relieved.

“That bad?”

“Mainly my shithead brother,” Ian responds.  “And he asked me if I would fly home for Christmas.  I have to think about that one.” 

“The holidays are fast approaching,” Sophia offers, “and it wouldn’t be a bad idea to spend it with family.”  Ian lets out a sigh at that, because nothing is supposedly worse than spending this time a year without your family, yet he can’t bring himself to feel like it’s a bad idea.  “And since we’re on the topic of the holidays,” Sophia continues, “we’ll probably be starting rehearsals for some great Christmas classic.”

“Ah, Christmas,” Archie says with stars in his eyes, “Jim’s favorite holiday.  And what will it be this year?  A Christmas Carol?  It’s A Wonderful Life?  The Steadfast Tin Soldier?  A Christmas Story?”

“None of those,” a voice says from behind the group.  It’s Jim, carrying his usual boxes of gourmet donuts.  He’s followed by a bunch of other cast a crew, who scatter themselves throughout the theater as they wait for rehearsal to start, and for Jim to announce the new show. 

The group makes their way to the boxes at the front of the stage, Archie immediately staking claim over the Boston crème.  Ian and Mickey of course go for the jelly, and Mickey feels his face go red when Ian smiles endearingly at him just before taking a bite.  He can practically hear Archie beaming at the interaction between them.  They make their way back to Sophia, now joined by Eli and Davis who’ve just arrived. She turns her nose up to the pastries when they all sit down, obviously still dealing with the after effects of her massive hangover the previous day.

After about ten minutes of people arriving and getting their donuts, Jim finally takes the stage in front of the group.  “Well as you all know, Christmas is in three weeks,” he starts as he begins to pace the stage.  “We have one more showing tonight for The Outsiders, and given the time constraints, we won’t be doing a huge, blowout production for a Christmas show.  We are doing something simpler this year.”  Everyone in the auditorium leans forward in their seats as Jim stops pacing.  “We’ll be doing a run through for the ongoing production today, then starting tomorrow, we’ll start full-on rehearsals for Love Actually.  We’ll do one read-though of the script at the end of today’s rehearsal.  Parts have already been delved out, and a list will be posted on the bulletin in the vestibule after rehearsal.  Please let me know _immediately_ if you do not want or agree with your part and you will be graciously thrashed by myself and my colleague Harry Moorsey.”

A wave of laughter travels through the auditorium along with some people letting out sounds of approval, Archie being one of them, while others just sigh.  It’s sickeningly romantic, and while some seem to have a penchant for this type of thing, Mickey finds himself outwardly scoffing.  “Quit it grumpelstiltskin,” Archie directs towards Mickey, “it’s perfect for the holidays.”

“Yeah, so is red and green and glitter, but that don’t make it right to wear together,” Mickey says sarcastically, earning a huge snort from Ian.  He turns to look at him, and quirks a brow.  Ian’s clearly in agreement with him.

“I’ve worn red, green and glitter together before,” Archie defends.

“Of course you have,” Davis chimes in, earning chuckles from the group.

“Whatever Scrooge,” Archie pronounces wounded as he turns to face the front.

“I’m no Scrooge,” Davis retorts, “just Jewish.”

“Ugh, forget you and your invisible Yarmulke,” Archie bites, “don’t hate me because I’ve got holiday cheer.”

“Not all Jews wear one you ignoramus,” Eli adds, “and you just have _cheer_ Archie, period.” 

“Whatever,” Archie replies, his head still facing the front.  “I’m done with this, this – public flogging!”

“You and Jim have a thing for whippings, huh?” Ian says, and even Mickey laughs at that.  Archie stabs the red head with a glare, narrowing his eyes.  Ian simply grins back.

“Alright, alright!” Jim calls out the auditorium.  “Enough chatter.  Let’s get down to business, shall we?  I need everyone to take their places so we can run through the production for tonight, then we can focus on the weeks ahead for Love Actually.”

“And we all know that love, actually… _is,_ right?” Archie says as he focuses in on Mickey, then Ian.  Clearly he’s recovered in record time from his wounds as he beams at the two. 

“Who doesn’t?” Ian says as he stands, making his way to the stage, before glancing over his shoulder at Mickey.

Baited, once again.

////

Ian’s not surprised he’s cast as Mark, the guy hopelessly in love with his best friend’s Bride who will always keep him in the friend zone.  How sad.  He’s overall pretty decent at the whole pining thing in real life so he figures he’ll take this opportunity to utilize this true-to-life skill in the play.

“Well hello there, Mark darling,” Archie says to Ian in the most horrendous and exaggerated British accent possible.  The actors have just finished the first reading of the screenplay and Archie is taking the wrap-up time to do his usual performances.  Ian doesn’t respond verbally, just simply rolls his eyes – he’s too busy focusing on Mickey sitting in the front row, not yet leaving as if waiting for them.  “Looks like our friend Mickey isn’t too antisocial after all,” Archie winks at Ian.

“Well helloooo gorgeous,” Eli blurts out, looking towards the back of the auditorium.

“Hello,” Ian laughs as he wraps his arms around Eli’s waist from behind.  Mickey shifts in his seat, apparently moved by how friendly the two of them can get, which Ian notices instantly.

Eli snorts, and turns towards Ian, who’s grinning confidently behind him.  “Not you,” Eli says as taps him on his nose, “although it’s the truth.”  He then walks towards the edge of the stage and points towards a figure walking up the center aisle.  “Him, walking towards us.”

They all glance at the mystery guy walking down the aisle, Mickey turning to look also.  He doesn’t recognize him as one of the cast members or stage crew, leaving him turning to look back at the fivesome on the stage.  He immediately notices Ian’s face turn serious, before perking up into a knowing smile.  Archie apparently knows the guy too, but is less impressed as he rolls his eyes into his skull, crosses his arms and waltzes off of the stage while looking at the guy suspiciously.  He makes his way over to Mickey and throws himself into a chair next to him.

“God help us all,” Archie groans to Mickey.

“Who is he?” Mickey asks, genuinely curious.  But before Archie can open his mouth to respond, everyone’s attention is immediately drawn to Ian practically jumping off of the stage and going up to the guy to pull him in for a nice, long hug.

“Wes!” Ian beams as he pulls away.  “You found me!  It’s been a long time.”

The mystery guy, with hair just as black as Mickey’s and eyes just as blue, but leaning more towards sky, looks at Ian for a lingering moment before finally speaking.  “Too long,” he says as he smiles, and his strong jawline nearly causes a pen-dropping silence in the auditorium.  Mickey’s certain he’s just heard Eli let out a gasp. 

Archie starts to cough, bringing his arm over his mouth.  “ _Cough…_ bullshit… _cough,_ ” Archie blurts between feigned coughing, earning a stabbing look from Ian.

Wes turns and looks at Archie and smiles slyly.  “Nice to see you again Arch,” Wes says as he nods towards a reddening Archie.

“Charmed,” Archie responds nonchalantly before turning his head away indignantly.  “I fucking hate that nickname,” he groans under his breath.

Mickey immediately picks up on the weird, different types of tension coming from every direction.  Disgusted from Archie – and clearly _sexual_ from Ian.  It bothers him.  It shouldn’t, but it does.  “Who is this guy?” Mickey finally asks Archie.  It seems he really does know everything and everyone.

“My, my, my,” Archie starts as he looks at Mickey, “ _that_ is Wesley Brighton.  He’s Ian’s college roommate, and according to our favorite ginger, the reason he got into theater and acting.”

 “I take it you don’t like him, huh?”

“He’s my favorite person,” Archie answers sarcastically before rolling his eyes again deeply at the guy.  Mickey looks at him suspiciously, raising his eyebrows to the ceiling.  “I hate his beautiful guts, that bootleg Ian Somerhalder,” Archie finally says.  “He was a complete ass to me the first few times I met him when he used to tag along with Ian to rehearsals, a real smug sonofabitch.  Maybe he’s changed.  Anywho, I wonder how his fiancée is doing – _skank_.”

“Wanna talk about it?” Mickey asks a clearly distressed Archie.  He then looks at Ian after asking this, and sees Ian walk over to the other side of the auditorium to talk to Wes in private.  How he wishes he could hear what they’re saying.  Feeling a little too interested in their interaction, he looks back at Archie who already knows what he’s _probably_ thinking.

“How the tables have turned.  I always ask you if you wanna talk about it, now here you are asking me,” Archie responds.  “Fine.  Here’s the short version of the story,” he starts as he looks over at Ian and Wes having a seemingly, secret conversation.  “I’ve known Ian since he interned here his senior year at BU, before he worked here fully.  He was a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed dreamer who was quite the optimist.  I guess you could say Wes was to thank for that.  They were… _close_.”

“Define close,” Mickey says.

“Wes was the first guy Ian thought he was truly in love with, ok?” Archie says quickly, almost as if trying to make the sting for Mickey (who he knows will have an issue with this whether he admits it or not) less painful.  Mickey’s eyes, just as he’d expected, grow to the size of saucers before returning to a normal size.  He tries to cover up his reaction, but it’s too late, Archie’s seen it.  He’s caught.

“And that’s a bad thing, why?” Mickey asks, trying to sound as normal as possible.

“Because he broke his heart!” Archie nearly shouts.  He calms himself and brings his voice back down, before continuing.  “Me and Ian grew close pretty quickly.  He told me almost everything in place of telling his brother everything.  Before he ever told me about him and Wes, I knew there was something there.  It wasn’t until Ian came to me sloppy drunk one night after a show, and told me how Wes got accepted to Yale Law and was engaged to Abbie Cartwright, the sneaky bitch that pretended to be his friend.  He spiraled pretty severely for months after that.  It was a rough time for him.”

_Spiraled_ , Mickey thinks.  Everything is still so jumbled to him, but he’s heard enough to somewhat piece things together.  “So wait – him and Ian were together?”

“Wes will never admit to it, and although Ian is pretty open about it, I don’t even think his family knows.  But yeah,” Archie responds, his eyes narrowed on Ian and Wes still chatting it up.  “I mean just look at him.  He’s not sniffing around Ian again for no reason.”

“But you just said he’s engaged to that Abbie girl.  And he likes guys?”  Archie shoots his attention back to a clearly confused Mickey.

“Mickey, sweetie,” Archie says as he looks endearingly at the junior stage tech, “have you never heard of being bisexual?  What rock have you been living under?  The guy swings both ways.”

Mickey seems to disregard Archie’s last comment as he focuses on Ian, and the way he looks so enthusiastic around Wes.  “Well clearly, he’s not _the_ _one_ ,” Mickey says unexpectedly, “otherwise they’d be together right now.”

Archie initially looks shocked at this and cocks his head to the side just as Mickey looks back at him.  “Clearly,” he responds knowingly, and Mickey makes no protests.

Archie and Mickey observe closely as Ian and Wes embrace.  Wes smiles one last time as he looks for far too long at Ian, and turns to leave the auditorium.  Ian makes his way over to the new best friends, who both have judging looks on their faces.  “What?” Ian asks, his question more so directed towards Archie.  He takes Mickey’s look as just a fluke.

“You gonna do _that_ again?” Archie asks as he points his head in the direction Wes just walked in.  Ian sighs, annoyed, because he really doesn’t feel like explaining simply reconnecting with an old college buddy.

“I’m not doing anything Archie,” Ian responds already aggravated.  “I’m just reconnecting with a college friend, that’s all.”

“Spare me the bullshit Ian,” Archie bites, and suddenly shit gets real.  Mickey’s even taken aback because this is the most serious he’s ever heard Archie.

“Excuse me?” Ian asks, taken aback.

“Ian, I love you, but that asshole doesn’t deserve your precious time,” Archie argues, now standing.  “He wasn’t there when you spiraled out of control, heartbroken and out of your head.  I was, and I refuse to see that again.”

“Archie, I get you don’t like him, but I learned forgive him a long time ago.”

“Yeah?” Archie continues, still upset by the situation, “Well you need to learn how to let sleeping dogs lie.” 

“Well one sleeping dog will be at the show tonight,” Ian shrugs.  Archie just shakes his head and decides to leave it alone for the time being. 

“Great, something for us all to look forward to,” Archie says as he throws his hands in the air, “the reemergence of Wesley Brighton!  But let the record show, he’s not _the_ _one_ Ian.”

“Right,” Ian responds, his voice more serious, “but at the rate I’m going, looks like my soulmate just refuses to reveal himself.  So what does it matter if I start messing around with Wes, huh?  Although that’s the last thing on my task list and not what I intend to do.”

At this point, Archie doesn’t come back with something clever to say, just lowers himself back in the seat next to Mickey who’s gnawing nervously on his bottom lip.  Mickey catches him staring at him as if he feels sorry for him and as if he knows something no one else does.  “What is it?” he inquires.

Archie’s shoulders slump as he sighs heavily.  “If only you knew,” he responds to Mickey, “or could admit.”

////

“I wonder what they’re talking about,” Sophia says to Eli as they observe Ian and Wes backstage, laughing probably about old times.  The show has just ended and the two are being chummy, which earns pointed stares from Archie, and now Mickey.  Archie has an extension cord in his hand, looking exceptionally dangerous with it like he could strangle Wes in any minute.  At this point, Sophia and Eli are glad they don’t really know the story of Wesley Brighton.

“Bitch,” Archie snarls as he continues to move extension cords and stage props with Mickey, who’s eerily quiet.  “I swear, those two couldn’t be any more sickening.”

“Would you just, drop it already?” Mickey finally says just as he starts to move a loveseat across the floor.

“If your arms didn’t look so damn good in that t-shirt while you move shit, I would ask you what’s up your ass, but I won’t.  I’m enjoying the view too much,” Archie quips.  Mickey stops pushing the loveseat and stands straight.  He tries his best to keep a straight face before letting a chuckle slip.  “There we go,” Archie smiles, “that’s what I wanna see.  Leave the bitching to me please.”

Mickey must admit Archie is awfully gifted.  Just when he feels like he can bite someone’s head off, the guy manages to reel him in, making him laugh.  Still, he feels slightly sore when Ian and Wes come waltzing happily over towards the group.

“Wes has invited all of us to one of our old watering holes tonight,” Ian says grinning from ear to ear.  It would make Mickey sick if it wasn’t so fucking beautiful.

“Tits anyone?” Wes laughs.  Everyone however grows silent, not getting the joke.  Archie looks as if he might strangle him for real this time.  “Tits,” Wes reiterates, “it’s the acronym for Tavern in the Square on Brighton Ave.”

“Fitting a bar called tits for short would be on a street that’s the same as your last name,” Archie says ironically.  Ian lets out a heavy sigh – he can already see where this night is going.

“So are you all game?” Wes asks again.  “Drinks on me.”

“Well now,” Archie says a lot more jovially, “we’re not gonna turn that offer down are we?”

Everyone, sans Mickey agrees.  He watches as Sophia, Eli and Davis make their way over to Ian and his roomie.  “I thought you hated his guts,” Mickey says to Archie.

“I hate his guts, not his wallet,” Archie smirks, “and I’m not turning down the opportunity to milk trust fund baby for all he’s worth.  You’re coming too,” he says as he looks Mickey up and down, who offers no protest.  He figures a few hours couldn’t hurt for free booze.

////

An hour at TITS and Mickey’s tipsy, which doesn’t help the way Ian looks at the bar, elbow to elbow with that Ian fucking Somerhalder look-alike.  He knows he should slow down on the alcohol, because it gets him in trouble.  He finds himself getting even more heated when he see that Wes isn’t even flinching at his ever-growing tab.  How sweet the life of a rich boy must be.

“Mickey!” Eli shouts in his ear, causing him to nearly jolt off of his stool.

“Christ!  You tryna make me deaf or something?” Mickey bites.

“No, just trying to snap you out of your trance.  What’s with you?” Eli asks.  Mickey simply throws up his hand to get the bartender’s attention for another drink.

“Nothing,” Mickey responds before taking another sip of his whiskey.  “Where’s the bathroom in this place?”

“That way,” Eli points, and Mickey nearly runs to the men’s room.

He doesn’t even need to take a piss, just needs to breathe for a minute alone.  He paces the empty bathroom in front of the sink, before placing his hands on the porcelain.  He stares at himself in the mirror, but he doesn’t look too long – he may _actually_ see himself in there.  He thinks back to what Ian said about his soulmate not showing himself, which almost made Mickey sick, because the one thing he has yet to tell anyone, or even accept himself, is that his dreams have fully developed.  The picture is complete.  In fruition.  _Clear_.  The night he passed out drunk at Jim’s he saw the one right in front of him.  It’s funny how alcohol lowers your inhibitions in wakefulness and sleep.  Standing in front of him in all his glory, was Ian.  _Fucking_ _Ian_.  But it’s not like he didn’t already know that, because before he could see his face, he knew it was him. 

The previous night, he’d heard his voice.

“Looks like are secret meeting place is the bathroom,” a voice says from behind him.  Mickey looks up, not even having heard the door swing open.  He was too deep in thought.  Ian frowns when he notices how heavily Mickey is breathing and how upset he looks.  “Are you ok?” he asks, concerned.

“Fine,” Mickey breathes out, straightening his posture to the best of his ability.  He turns to leave, but stops when he suddenly experiences déjà vu – Ian his standing in front of his point of exit, _again_.  “Let me get by,” Mickey says, his voice suddenly hoarse.  Ian smirks, but Mickey cuts the game short.  “We’re not gonna fucking do this again, _move_.”

“No problem,” Ian says, stepping aside, earning a flabbergasted look from Mickey.  “We’re all about to head out being it’s a weekday, and I just had to use to bathroom real quick.”

It takes a minute for Mickey to respond.  Perhaps he was upset Ian didn’t try to pursue him again, but he would never admit that out loud.  “Thanks,” he says lowly as he begins to make his way out.  Ian however, grabs him by the wrist when he walks by and Mickey’s now convinced eyes like his kill.

“Are we ever gonna talk about, you know, that night at Jim’s?” Ian asks, his green eyes expectant.

“What’s there to talk about?” Mickey says as he removes his wrist out of Ian’s grasp.  He’s already stressed he’s looking his soulmate right in the yes, but knows he will never have the strength to tell him – at least not until Ian’s own dreams reveal who he is and it’s no longer possible to run.  Although right now, in this small space, his feet feel stuck because there’s nothing he wants to do more in this moment than charge Ian and kiss him again.

“We kissed Mickey,” Ian finally says.  “And something tells me you enjoyed it just as much as I did.”

“Did I?” Mickey asks, before leaving the restroom, trying his best not to trip over his stomach that’s in the floor from the way Ian’s face fell.

 

After a few minutes, everyone is preparing to go home for the night.  Mickey’s standing outside smoking his third cigarette, not able to face Ian when he came out of the bathroom.  His nerves have never been more fucked up.  He inwardly curses Terry for a fear that’s embedded in his very DNA. 

“You ok babes?” Archie asks, as he throws an arm around Mickey’s shoulders.

“Just peachy,” Mickey replies sarcastically. 

“That’s a no,” Archie sighs.  He squeezes Mickey’s shoulder just as the rest of the gang exits the tavern, going their separate ways to head home.  They exchange goodbyes, leaving Ian and Wes. 

“We’re gonna head out now,” Ian says to Archie and Mickey.  He’s only looking at Archie however.  “So I’ll, uh, see you guys tomorrow,” he says as he walks over towards Wes.

“Looks like they’re leaving together,” Archie says disappointed.

“Whatever, I’m out,” Mickey declares sharply before tossing his cigarette to the ground.

“Want me to accompany you halfway home?” Archie offers.  “I don’t mind taking the long way.”

“No thanks,” Mickey says as he walks away.  “I’m fine alone.”  Archie watches as Mickey storms down the street, Ian secretly watching from a distance.

////

Another hour later and he still feels fucked.  His emotions have never been so all over the place.  Mickey buries his face into his pillow as he tries his best to fall asleep, although he really doesn’t want to.  “Fuck!” he screams into the feathers.  He punches his bed before finally sitting up.  Maybe he should have gotten more inebriated.

He stands to make his way to his couch and flips on his television.  Perhaps some late night tube surfing will take his mind off of things.  He maneuvers to sit down, but is interrupted by a knock at his door.  He furrows his brows.  It has to be one of the neighbors, because you can only get in if someone buzzes you up or if you have a key.  Groaning, and hoping that he’s not going to get a complaint about his television being too loud – and the volume is pretty high – he trudges reluctantly to the door as another string of knocks raps on his door.

“What?!” he nearly screams as he swings the door open.  His heart nearly bursts when he sees Ian standing there, anxiety written all over his face.  “Wh-what the…” Mickey trails off as he gathers himself.  “Or _how_ the fuck did you get here?” Mickey asks, not yet offering Ian an invitation to come inside.

Ian shifts nervously, before looking around, then focusing his attention back on Mickey.  “Sorry to startle you,” Ian says as he shoves his hands in his pocket.  “I – uh – sorta followed you here.”

“Followed me?  Like a stalker?” Mickey asks as he crosses his arms.

“No, not really,” Ian finally responds.  “I called and asked Archie to give me your address from Jim’s staff files he keeps in his home office.”

“Like I said,” Mickey huffs, “a stalker.”

“Call me what you want,” Ian says as he looks around Mickey into his apartment.  “Can we talk?” he asks.

Mickey thinks about telling him to take his stalker ass home, but he knows he won’t.  He can’t.  “Thought you liked Wes or something,” he says, still not stepping aside.

“I do, I think…” Ian trails off as he runs his hands through his hair.  “I don’t know, I’m so confused,” he finally offers. 

“What are you confused about?”

“Mainly you,” Ian responds, “but it’s weird because I’ve also never felt so sure about someone.”

Mickey grows silent for a few short moments.  “Well, I thought you left with him,” Mickey says, trying to blow off what Ian just said.

“I did,” Ian reveals, “but now I’m here.”

“Why?” Mickey asks, continuing his interrogation.  Ian grows silent for a minute not really knowing what to say. 

So he decides to show him instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter mainly to the song "Superstar" by Broods, which I've been listening to like crazy in conjunction with Lianne La Havas, "Elusive." The writing for this fic is coming so easily to me, and I can say confidently I like where it's going, I just hope you all do too. Now, that doesn't mean it will be all rainbows and skittles from here, but things will unfold more. Yes, Wes will still be lurking in this story, and you all know how I love angst. A bit of that may come too. Mickey at least knows for sure his soulmate is Ian, but that will of course not erase all the years of the fear his father instilled in him (he has to deal with and overcome that). And of course, Ian doesn't know Mickey's his yet, but he will soon. As usual, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed! :)


	6. Proceed With Abandon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey knows the feeling. To be afraid of having feelings for someone – feelings you essentially can’t control. Then he thinks about how it must be hell for Ian, knowing he’s so close, yet so far. “I can relate,” he says.
> 
> “You running too?” Mandy asks, already knowing the answer to her own question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me start by saying I love you all. :) It's another long one, but I hope it's good. I was fairly lazy with the editing...

Mickey’s been in many fights in his life, but none like this.  Too many times he’s used his fists to communicate, ultimately causing irrevocable damage.  However, he always came out the victor, and control remained his.  That’s what it’s always been about with him – control.  But here, in this moment, knuckles weren’t necessary.  Physical strength was irrelevant.  It was bound to be a losing battle, the power like water in his hands.

His opponent - Ian Gallagher, i.e., _the one_.

There’s a tug-o-war that’s far from classic going on.  Emotions are the rope and Ian’s clearly the strongman in this game.  Mickey’s just someone who apparently came with oil slicked hands.  He’s clumsy, fumbling over himself and he’s the one with the upper hand, knowing exactly who Ian is to him – Ian’s just moving on raw, gut emotions not yet hip to Mickey’s identity, yet he’s overpowering him.  He’s hell bent on proving that actions speak louder than words to Mickey, and if the way his hands are gripping the back of his neck while his tongue sweeps the inside of his mouth for any doubts is any attestation, the stage actor is successfully proving his point.  Message received.  No words necessary.

There’s biting and swearing going on between them, Mickey trying his best ever so often to break the aggressive make-out session, but Ian’s far too strong.  And it has nothing to do with his frame being larger than his.  Not by a long shot.  While actions for Ian speak louder than words, dreams for Mickey are deafening in comparison to any conscious thought.  They’re weakening.  So as his dream is literally pressed into him, his body nearly smothering his into the couch, Mickey can’t hear a damn thing or put up an ounce of a fight.  One sense torn from him and it’s weakened any other defenses he thought he had.

If there was any uncertainty about Mickey being gay, which there never really was for Ian after their initial kiss, he was certain now.  The stage tech is hard as a rock, the proof poking through his sweats, which in turn only makes Ian that much harder.  He decides to explore the evidence, and slips his hand into his sweats, and nearly gasps when he feels that Mickey isn’t wearing boxers.  It startles him, because he never struck him as the type to go commando.  The startle suddenly turns into arousal.

“Free-ballin’it huh?” Ian practically growls into Mickey’s mouth.

The stage tech lets out a moan before he can respond, his immediate reaction to Ian’s hand swiftly gripping him at the base of his dick.  “Fuck,” he says through a half moan.  He looks up at Ian, who’s now hovering above him, grinning cheekily as he stokes him painstakingly slow.  “Only when I’m home,” he finally manages to breathe out.

“Shame,” Ian says just as he flicks his thumb across the head, causing Mickey to arch his back, “No underwear makes quick, backstage blowjobs less of a hassle.”

Just the thought of Ian on his knees backstage, his lips red and swollen around his cock while they disappear between the thick, black curtains, makes Mickey shudder.  It makes him harder.  He begins to inch his hands up Ian’s back underneath his shirt, his nails digging into flesh just as the red head does this twisting motion with his wrist.  It nearly causes Mickey to unravel.  Ian sees this and decides it’s time for his mouth to replace his hand.

He maneuvers himself down Mickey’s torso until his head is directly above his crotch, his hand still firmly stroking and squeezing.  Using his free hand, he pulls down Mickey’s sweats in one swift motion down to his knees and wastes no time diving in head first.  Ian’s tactical.  A strategist.  A fucking _tease_.  He doesn’t take Mickey fully into his mouth right away, but instead slowly wraps his lips around the tip as his tongue flicks across the pre-come gathered there.  He does this swirling thing with his tongue and it causes Mickey’s body to shake as his eyes roll back into his head.

“Mmmm, _ffffuck,_ ” Mickey hisses just as Ian relaxes his throat and takes him all the way into his mouth.  He’s almost positive he can come just by the way Ian’s mouth looks as he works his shaft, and his unbelievable gag reflex.  The actor’s looking up at him through his pretty eyelashes as he picks up speed, his eyes hooded and lustful.  His cheeks hollow out just as he hums around Mickey’s dick, rotating his neck quickly in circular motions that creates a fucking cyclone around it.  “What the – shit – _fffuck_!” Mickey hollers out without even feeling the outburst coming, his hand simultaneously finding its way into Ian’s hair as he grabs a fistful of red strands.

Mickey’s as good as gone.  If Ian’s blow job is this mind blowing, he can only imagine what his sex game is like.

He closes his eyes tight and takes his bottom lip between his teeth just as he feels his climax approaching.  Ian’s still on a mission, his pace even quicker, and his tongue doing things Mickey didn’t think were physically possible while giving head.  And just when he didn’t think it could get better, Ian catches him off guard and pulls his lip from between his teeth, all the while still blowing away, and shoves two fingers into his mouth.  Mickey gets the hint and makes sure he wets those long fingers with more than enough saliva, running his tongue between them.  Ian removes them out of Mickey’s mouth when he feels they’re properly lubricated and without warning, presses them into the stage tech.  Mickey arches his back again and nearly screams when he feels Ian crook his fingers and massage his sweet spot while continuing his oral assault.

“G-g-gonna…come,” Mickey warns thinking this will make Ian stop sucking and jerk him over the edge.  But he doesn’t.  Instead, the red head gets even more reckless with his mouth and massages his prostate with more fervor.  Mickey sees stars when he comes in Ian’s mouth, who takes it willingly and swallows it all without a second thought.

It takes a minute for Mickey to come back down – and he comes to, _hard_ , crashing to the ground from the cloud he was just on.  He begins to get nervous; it’s only right he returns the favor, but Ian’s a tough act to follow and not to mention he’s never sucked a dick a day in his life.  It was bad enough he fucked other dudes, never bottoming for the few he allowed himself to get that far with, so sucking cock was never an option.  It wasn’t as much a fear thing as it was a shame thing.  But fuck all if he didn’t want to return the favor to Ian, and bad.

Just as his mind catches up to his body, Mickey decides it’s a go and props himself up on his elbows.  His jaw nearly drops when he sees that Ian already has his pants unzipped and pushed down to his thighs, his hand  quickly stroking what  Mickey can see to be a massive amount of meat.  He’s already taking care of himself it seems, and just as Mickey fixes his mouth to say _‘What the fuck,’_ Ian makes eye contact with him and lets out a grunt just as he spills over his hand.

“Did you just jerk yourself off over me?” Mickey asks.  He should sound nonplussed, but instead, his words come out as more amused, pleasantly surprised even.  A flush creeps into Ian’s cheeks as he looks down at Mickey.

“Sorry,” Ian says embarrassed, “I haven’t gotten _that_ excited in a long time and I was about to fucking explode.”  He wipes his hand on the bottom of his shirt, not caring it’ll leave a stain there, before pulling up his boxers and jeans.  He sits on the couch, and turns his head towards Mickey slowly, his green eyes scanning him up and down as if surveying the damage he’s possibly caused.  Mickey was fucked up for sure, but in the best way possible.   “I don’t even come that quickly when I’m fucking,” Ian says, his eyes now locked on Mickey’s lips.  “Fuck, there’s something about you though.  I’m starting to feel like I can’t control myself around you.  And just sucking you off turned me on in ways I’ve never felt before.”

At this point, Mickey looks away.  He has to.  He knows exactly what is happening, and given he knows who Ian is, the phenomenon isn’t exactly hard to pinpoint.  Ian however, is still struggling to see the signs and somehow Mickey feels he’s to blame for the blinds over his eyes.  “Don’t worry about it,” Mickey manages to say as he struggles to hold eye contact with Ian.  Leave the worrying to him.  The first sexual contact between soulmates is known to be off the Richter scale intense, making your body more sensitive than it normally is.  Again, Mickey’s mind goes back to Ian’s mouth and how insane of a prelude it probably is to what the actor can do in the bedroom.

Add an innate connection to that and it’s bound to be hazardous.

“Yes, everything else I do is just as good,” Ian says out of the blue.  He cocks his head to the side and grins confidently as Mickey shoots him a look of confusion.  “I know what you’re wondering,” Ian begins again as he inches closer to Mickey on the couch, “If I’m as good in the sack as I am giving blowjobs.  The answer to your question is, yes.”

“I wasn’t asking,” Mickey shoots back, trying his best to sound unimpressed.  It’s a miserable attempt because his voice sounds like a sexually eager, teenage boy going through puberty who just had his dick sucked for the first time.

“Yeah, well you were wondering,” Ian remains firm.  This time he gets no response from Mickey.  He only gets a skeptical scoff.  The actor moves even closer, every intention to literally put any skepticism to bed burning behind his eyes.  “Wanna find out?” he asks lowly as he shoots his eyes towards Mickey’s bedroom. 

Mickey doesn’t answer, only ogles hesitantly and expectantly at the same time.  He feels fragile under Ian’s gaze, the red head bound to break him in so many ways.  But despite the pieces he’s certain to end up in, he knows the destruction will be in the most beautiful ways possible.  It scares the shit out of him, how willing he is to break under Ian, let his walls crumble.  Ian moves in as he ponders, and takes his bottom lip between his teeth as he balls the fabric of Mickey’s tank top in his fist.  He kisses him briefly before pulling the stage tech to his feet, gently leading him to his bed.

They make it into the bedroom, Mickey lowering himself onto the foot of his bed.  Ian remains standing, slowly removing his shirt.  Everything underneath is exactly how Mickey pictured it.  _Perfection_.  Ian smiles when he notices the admiration, and lowers himself, causing Mickey to fall onto his back, his blue eyes wide as he looks up at his literal dream.  The hardness that was always in the Southside boy’s eyes slowly disappears as something softer replaces it.  Ian ducks down and begins to slowly kiss Mickey who closes his eyes, his lids covering melting blue steel and a blooming gentleness.

Just as he feels himself getting into the motions, a familiar figure appears behind his eyelids, a pressing look on his face.  It’s subconscious him, once again.  The dreams never stop.  The sparring is never-ending.  Mickey looks himself in the face just as he opens his mouth and says, _“Time to tell him.”_ Panic sets in.  He pushes Ian on his chest, signaling him to stop and lift off.  This time it’s his turn to be confused as he looks down quizzically at Mickey, who looks away from him as he sits up to straighten his tank top.

“Um,” Mickey says as he stares straight ahead, “I…uh…” he trails off.  He takes his chances and looks at Ian whose eyes are so expectant.  This throws him off kilter – and face first against the wall.  “I think you should go,” Mickey finally manages to say.

“What?” Ian responds, obviously shocked and somewhat disappointed.  “I don’t understand.”

Mickey rubs his hands down his face as he stands.  He makes his way to his bedroom door, but before he exits he turns towards Ian as says, “Neither do I.”

Ian lets out an exasperated breath as he stands and throws on his shirt, following Mickey out.  “You know I don’t get you sometimes,” Ian starts as he gathers the rest of his things, “One minute you’re hot, the next you’re cold.”  He throws on his coat unceremoniously as he tightly wraps his scarf around his neck.  And just like that, the suffocating feeling he fights all the time is back.  “I know you feel something, you can’t hide or fake that shit,” he says to Mickey as he makes his way to the front door.

“Ian, look – “

“Look what?” Ian cuts Mickey off as he turns.  He stands with one leg outside of his apartment, and one leg in, straddling the threshold, just as Mickey seemingly straddles his feelings.  “You don’t have to explain anything to me.  You’re in denial, I get it.  But just try not to send me anymore mixed signals and maybe we can be cordial to each other moving forward.”  He scans Mickey with his eyes one last time before storming off down the hallway.

Frustrated, mainly with himself, Mickey slams his door shut and paces the living madly for five minutes, cursing up a storm to the top of his lungs not caring if he’s disturbing his neighbors.  “Fuck!” he yells as he goes into his room, throwing himself into his bed.  He’s an idiot, just like Archie told him before.  But more than that, he’s afraid.  Ashamed.  It’s crushing to the point of being crippling.

He stares at the ceiling, counting the water spots above his head over and over, until he falls asleep, the words playing repeatedly in his mind. 

_Time to tell him…time to tell him…time to tell him._

////

“The hell are you doing here?”

Ian looks up after staring at his feet, his arms wrapped tightly around himself.  He’s obviously distraught.  “Sorry to pop up like this, but can I just…stay here with you tonight?” he asks.  He shifts nervously from foot to foot as he waits for an answer expectantly.

“Yeah sure,” Wes responds as he steps aside letting Ian inside his apartment.  He closes the door, his eyes following Ian into the living room.  Wes watches him as he removes his scarf and jacket, his back to him, letting out a long breath as he fixes his eyes back onto his feet.  He walks slowly over to Ian, starting to feel concerned.  “What happened?”

Ian turns towards him, his face stressed, hurt, and every other frustrating emotion in between the two.  “Can’t believe you kept your Boston apartment,” Ian comments as he moves more towards Wes.  “Why isn’t Abbie here?” he asks, clearly deflecting the question asked.

Wes is caught off guard by the question, shown in the way he jerks his head back.  “She’s still in Connecticut right now, taking care of work stuff,” he answers suspiciously.  “She’ll be coming here the week of Christmas to spend it with me and my family.”  Ian begins to aimlessly rub his hands over his forearms as he nervously bites his bottom lip.  His focus is gone, and Wes finds himself getting more and more concerned by the minute.  “But what’s wrong Ian?” he tries again. 

“I just…” Ian trails off as he looks at Wes with something bordering affection, “Can we not talk about it tonight?” he asks.

“Ok, that’s fine,” Wes answers as he places a hand on Ian’s shoulder, “whatever makes you comfortable.”  He squeezes gently, but it was just enough to cause Ian to break underneath his touch.

And just enough, may have been a little too much.

////

Somewhere between TITS and the Huntington stage the following day, the balance was interrupted.  Totally fucked with by something or _someone_.  Since then things have been off between a certain, two individuals.  As far as Archie’s concerned he’s in purgatory – that weird space somewhere between Ian’s false heaven and Mickey’s personal hell.  He’s just about had enough of the awkwardness between them, and feels it’s time the balance be restored already.

Really, he just wants to do his own digging; bring the shovel to the bullshit covering the both of them.

“What the hell is going on between you and Ian?” Archie asks Mickey as they wrap up another rehearsal.  For the past week, the two have been avoiding each other, trying their best to make it inconspicuous that they’re at odds.  For Archie, it couldn’t be more obvious.

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Mickey finally answers after considerable pause.  He aimlessly wraps an extension cord off of the stage floor around his arm as he keeps his eyes fixed on anything and everything that isn’t Archie’s _‘I know you’re hiding shit’_ stare.

“You smell that?” Archie asks as he walks circles around Mickey.  He paces around him a few more revolutions, finally getting those all too telling blue eyes to acknowledge him.

Mickey eyes Archie as if annoyed.  “Smell what?” he asks before going right back to his mindless task.

“The ever-growing stench of bullshit,” Archie deadpans.  Mickey stops moving, his eyes widening before narrowing.  He hasn’t known Archie forever, but he knows him well enough to know he picks up on shit far too easily for his own good.

The two stare at each other for a few moments, the only sound being a few lingering cast members’ voices in the audience.  Mickey stalls, because whether or not he chooses to tell Archie what’s going on between him and Ian, that the weirdness stems from a blowjob followed by almost-sex and him practically kicking Ian out, the persistent fucker will somehow beam himself into his brain and figure it out.  “Go ahead,” Mickey scoffs as he beckons Archie to bring it with his hands, “hit me with whatever it is you really wanna ask.”

“You two hook up or something?” Archie inquires.  “You know, Ian did call me and ask me for your address that night we all went out.  So did you two fool around, and now you’re avoiding the awkward aftermath?”

Instead of answering, Mickey shakes his head disbelievingly, because that’s exactly it, but he won’t be divulging that information to Archie.  He storms backstage, disappearing behind the thick, black curtains, which does nothing to get rid of Archie who follows him.  Mickey begins to stuff the extension cords into their respective boxes, almost angrily.  He feels Archie’s presence behind him, which triggers something, causing him to turn around quickly, anger written all over his face.

“What do you want from me, huh?” he asks loudly as he gets in Archie’s face who doesn’t budge.  “You want me to tell you I got feelings for Ian, that I want him and that he could be the one for me and all that fairytale bullshit?  Is that what you want?  Huh?!”

Mickey’s fuming, and Archie can see this, but he refuses to back down, the scenario bringing back memories of when Jamaal used to be so afraid of his own shadow.  Instead of walking away, which would be the smart thing around someone like Mickey, Archie raises his eyebrows and crosses his arms.  “You did that already hun,” he says so matter of fact.

“What?” Mickey’s face is skeptical, but it transforms into a knowing panic.  Because in all honesty, Archie has a way about him that gets things out of people – deep, truthful things.  Who knows what he could have hinted, or flat out said to the guy during a vulnerable moment?  You didn’t have to be specific with Archie for him to decipher what it was you really meant.  Reading between the lines was his thing.  “What are you saying?” Mickey asks as he darts his eyes around nervously.

“You’re always looking for a place to hide,” Archie offers, initially confusing Mickey.  However, slowly but surely, he begins to get it.  The brunette moves in closer to a now exposed Mickey, who looks away nervously, avoiding eye contact.  “When you were drunk at Jim’s that night, you may have…told me some things.”

“What things?” Mickey asks hesitantly, his voice low.

“About Ian, how you feel.”  Mickey shifts nervously at that, but manages to look at Archie finally.  “Look, details aren’t important right now,” Archie says, seeing the fear behind his eyes, “just know there’s a way to be yourself.  I promise you this.”

“What if I tell you that’s just _not_ possible?” Mickey responds.  The look on his face is far beyond serious, and this nearly breaks Archie’s heart, because it’s Jamaal all over again.

“It is,” Archie says as he pats Mickey on the shoulder.  “It’s also possible to face your dreams.”  He winks at Mickey who knows what he’s referring to without needing him to expound further.

Just as Mickey fixes his mouth to respond to that, Ian and Sophia appear, putting away a few stage props.  The red head’s eyes immediately zero in on Mickey, but they’re neither endearing nor upset.  They’re indifferent, which is far worse than antagonism – at least there’s emotion in anger.  Mickey takes this as his cue to leave.  He walks around Archie, purposely making his way towards the other exit on the far end of the stage, despite there being one a few feet away.  But Ian’s standing far too close, the path to get to it right in the crossfire for Mickey – it’s too awkward for him to even be ten feet away from him.  It makes him feel like a pussy.

“I gotta run,” Mickey says quickly as he glances over his shoulder at Archie.

“Do you?” Ian says out of the blue, causing Mickey to stop dead in his tracks.  He doesn’t respond immediately, only rubs his thumb across his bottom lip.  Ian’s words are filled with so much more than what’s insinuated on the surface.  Running is the only thing Mickey knows how to do – it’s his defense mechanism.  His protection.  Ian can see that.

“I do,” Mickey responds, as he turns his back to the three.  He finally exits back stage, once again leaving Ian to wonder hopelessly about him and what’s truly behind those walls that shield him so.

“But you don’t,” Ian says quietly, but Mickey doesn’t hear him.

////

“Assface,” Mandy greets on the other end of the line.  “Since when do you call me on a weekday?  Shit, since when do you call me at all?”

“What?  I can’t call my sister just to see how she’s doing?” Mickey responds, trying his best to sound remotely offended, but Mandy’s right.  He doesn’t do the phone thing unless it’s an emergency or there’s money involved.

He hears Mandy let out a snort.  She’s clearly seeing through his façade, and he doesn’t expect anything less.  “Mickey, who are you tryna kid?” Mandy counters, “We both know sentiment is not your thing, you’re allergic, and since dad’s still in the clink and no one here owes you money right now, I’d say you’re fucking joshing me.”

 “Nobody’s pullin’ your leg, calm down.”  And he isn’t.  Mickey did call Mandy for a reason being that there was no one else he could talk to about this.  His other siblings didn’t give two fucks about anything outside of making runs and getting money, and truth be told, neither did he, until now – until the buildup of all this tension and too much of it makes him do things without thinking.  Picking up the phone to talk to Mandy about this was one of those things.  He hadn’t thought about how he would word this exactly.  “I need to talk to you about something.”

“You need to talk to me?” Mandy asks in disbelief.  “Mickey you’re a fucking safe,” she laughs, “you’re the most locked down, secretive person I know.  What could you possibly wanna talk to me about?”

“Something that’s…shit…that’s...” Mickey trails off, trying to not only to find the right words, but the right amount of words that will tell Mandy just enough without revealing too much.  Words with him have always been a numbers game – being vague has always been his safety net.  Because too few words make you seem aloof, whereas too many gets you killed.

“Ok?” Mandy responds, waiting for her brother to explain this _something_.  “C’mon, spill it would ya?”

“Give me a fucking minute!” Mickey bites, “Fuck!”

Mandy grows silent for a few moments on the other end of the line.  Mickey knows she isn’t shocked by his sudden outburst; rather, she’s probably curious about what caused it.  “What’s eating you, huh?” she finally asks after considerable pause.

“My dreams,” Mickey says with a tightened jaw, “my fucking dreams.  I-I can’t.”

“Can’t what?  Dream?”

“No, that’s not it,” Mickey clarifies.  If anything he’s dreaming too much.  He pinches the bridge of his nose nervously as he thinks about the fact that he could possibly come out to his sister over the phone.  It’s Ian – _all_ Ian.  That’s his problem.  But he knows if he tells Mandy this, being gay will no longer be a secret.

“It’s about your soulmate isn’t it?” Mandy breaks the ice. 

Mickey opens his mouth before slamming it back shut.  He quickly considers lying and telling Mandy it’s nothing, but he knows even being in a completely different state, he’d still be like glass.  Transparent.  Mandy wouldn’t have to be in front of him to see through him.  “Yeah,” he finally answers.

“You know who it is?  You’ve seen them?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit Mickey,” she responds surprised, “and just when I thought you didn’t have a soul.”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” he asks. 

“Well, you’re just such an ass sometimes…no…most of the time,” she starts, and Mickey can just see her with that Milkovich smirk on her face.  “And you’ve never actually talked about your dreams.  No one knows when onset happened for you.  I even know when it started for Iggy and Collin.” 

Mickey lets out a huff, because really, if Mandy only knew why he was so guarded.  “You don’t understand.”

“Oh, but I think I do,” Mandy counters, “more than you know.  So, who is he?”

There’s a serious delay in his brain when he hears Mandy say _he._ It takes Mickey far too long to catch up to his thoughts, which are a mile ahead of him at this point.  “I’m sorry, who is _he_?” he asks.  He just wants to be sure he heard her right and his mind isn’t fucking with him.

“You heard me,” she responds matter of fact, “who is he?”

“What makes you think it’s a guy?”

“C’mon Mickey, you may be secretive, but I know you,” Mandy offers.  “I’ve known you’re gay since you were six years old.  You would always steal my Ken dolls and I would catch you rubbing two of them up against each other in your room when no one was looking.  But I always was.  Not to mention you’ve never had a girlfriend, and don’t think you were fooling anyone by randomly smashing chicks like Angie Zago, all ploys.  And whether we accept this dream differentia shit or not, it’s always spot on.”

Mandy’s not the smartest girl, Mickey knows that.  But when she’s on, she’d dead on.  He finds himself holding his mouth slightly open, somewhat shell-shocked by the accuracy of her words.  He panics a bit inside, because if it was that obvious to Mandy, there was no telling who else in his family knew.  He however takes comfort in the fact that he’s still breathing, because if Terry would have gotten the slightest hint that he was gay, his life would’ve ended right there.  His father was ruthless like that.  Blood became irrelevant when it came to his own prejudices and hate.

“Don’t worry,” Mandy cuts through the silence, “no one has even the slightest clue.  And I also don’t give a shit.”  With that, Mickey finds the tension is his body slowly loosening.  Despite the fear of his sexuality actually being known, he feels a weird sensation come over him.  It’s relief.

“You know the Gallaghers pretty well, right?” Mickey asks.

“Do I?” Mandy snorts.  “Who doesn’t know the spawn of Frank fucking, low-life Gallagher?  I used to fool around with the oldest brother Lip when I was fifteen, right before he went off the California.”

“Yeah I think I remember that.  Me and Lip got into a fight once in high school when he refused to reimburse me for the shitty weed he sold me once.  But do you know _all_ the Gallaghers?” he asks.

Mandy pauses for a few seconds as if thinking.  “Well, I know Frank and Monica had six children, but I always only saw five, but – “ she cuts herself off.  “Wait…one of them I only saw a few times right before summer started, before we would leave to go see Aunt Randi in Detroit.  He’s a red head.  I saw him jogging with Fiona the end of junior year one morning when I went to the Kash N Grab for milk.  Total fucking stud.  I asked Lip about him once, and he said his name was Ian, his half brother.”

“Yeah, that’s right, Ian,” Mickey says, a sudden softness to his voice.  He takes a deep breath before spitting out the next two words.  It’s the first time he’s ever revealing this to anyone, but it’s Mandy so he tells himself to calm down.  “It’s him.”

_Silence_.

Mandy says nothing.  Mickey says nothing.  It’s silence on top of silence, the only sounds being their breathing via cables and electrical signals. 

“Oh my God,” Mandy finally says.  “Oh my God,” she says again.

“What?” Mickey asks, hearing the shock in her voice.  “What’s the problem?  Is that bad?”

“No!” Mandy assures him, seemingly back down to Earth.  “It’s just, I found out who my soulmate is a few days ago, and…shit…this is weird.”

“Well, who is it?”

“Lip fucking Gallagher.”

The same silence returns for a few moments and this time its Mickey’s turn to act shocked.  Talk about keeping it in the family.  “Wow,” he says surprisingly.  “He know yet?”

“Dunno,” Mandy offers, letting out a long breath, “I think he may.  I ran into him last week, and we rekindled some things, i.e., we fucked like rabbits.  My dreams hit me like a freight train a few days later.”

“You tell him yet?”

“No, but I’m pretty sure he knows.  He’s been acting like a freak since then, like he’s afraid of me or something.  But I know he accepted it at one point, otherwise I would still be in the dark about who he is.”

Mickey knows the feeling.  To be afraid of having feelings for someone – feelings you essentially can’t control.  Then he thinks about how it must be hell for Ian, knowing he’s so close, yet so far.  “I can relate,” he says.

“You running too?” Mandy asks, already knowing the answer to her own question.

“I don’t fucking run,” Mickey lies.  He does.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she offers knowingly.  “Does he at least know?”

“I can’t tell.  Part of me thinks he has an idea, and the other part of me doesn’t want him to.”

“Listen to me Mickey,” Mandy says in her _‘I’m about to give unsolicited advice’_ voice, “He can’t hurt you anymore.”  Mickey feels a chill run down his spine at the sound of Mandy’s words, because he knows exactly who _he_ is.  He stands for dad, dad for Terry  - Terry for _fear_.  “He can’t,” she continues, “at least not while he’s locked up, and not while me and Iggy still have breath in our bodies.  And even when that fucker gets out, you’re gone and he can’t get to you.  So if I were you, I’d go after Ian before something happens to fuck up your chances.”

“I think I may have done that already.”

“No, you haven’t dumbass,” Mandy bites, “the only thing you’ve fucked up is time, all the time you’ve wasted being a pussy about this, while you’ve got 55% of the population who’d give an arm to experience what you’re experiencing.  And you have to admit, there’s nothing like it.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Mickey responds, finally starting to give in.

“So if I were you, I’d proceed,” Mandy continues to lecture her brother, “and with abandon Mickey.  Proceed with abandon.”

Mandy was right.  Milkoviches weren’t too fond of caution, and taking their time with things.  They moved speedily and recklessly, taking whatever they wanted that was in their path, because they might not get the opportunity again.  And although this was a fact, when it came to feelings, proceeding with caution was irrelevant because there was no proceeding at all.  The clan Milkovich didn’t move on things they didn’t understand.  If anything, they destroyed them.  Mickey wonders if that’s what he was doing to Ian, trying to destroy him and any hopes he had before it dawned on him that there was only one thing he was destroying - himself.

“Thanks,” Mickey says to Mandy.  He was never one to take advice from her, but this time around, he was seriously considering.

“No problem,” she responds.  “Now quit your fucking moping and grow a pair,” she huffs before hanging up.

Mickey smiles as he says, “Love you too sis,” to nothing but the dial tone.  He knows when Mandy is saying it in her own, unique way.

////

Fridays at the Huntington Theatre Company means shenanigans are bound to ensue.  With all of the intense rehearsals preparing for the upcoming Christmas season, it’s even more likely, given everyone is one step away from carrying flasks in their jackets.  Mickey rubs his hands across his face as he watches the cast wrap up on the stage below.  He’s tired, but at the same time all he wants to do is go out and get shitfaced.  He focuses his eyes; it’s a repetitive thing, and it should be getting old by now, but the way they immediately focus on how red hair looks under the stage lighting feels like he’s seeing it for the first time – every time.

“You ain’t getting any younger handsome,” Archie says from behind Mickey, causing him to look over his shoulder with a questionable look.  He raises a brow, unmoved.  It’s typical Archie, and Mickey must admit he’s getting far too used to his banter and cryptic puns.  “In the words of the fabulous music artist Seinabo Sey, I say to you, there’s a way to catch your dreams without falling asleep.  You might as well get it while you can babe.”

“Who the fuck is Seinabo Sey?” Mickey asks Archie, not even trying to decipher what it is he’s getting at.  “The hell kinda name is that anyway?”  He turns to face his new best friend who has that all too knowing look written all over his face.

“Not important sweetie,” Archie offers as he peeps around Mickey to get his own view of the stage below.  “She’s just the person who sings the new anthem to my life, and now yours.”

“I’m not following.”

“Sure you’re not,” Archie laughs.  Mickey shoots him that look that says he’s too done, and Archie pulls back, just a little.  “Ok, look, you can’t bullshit a bullshitter Mickey.  I know how you feel about Ian and before you start puffing smoke out of your nostrils and throw me off of the balcony, hear me out.”

“Make it quick before I change my mind,” Mickey bites.  Although he knows he won’t throw Archie overboard, it’s awfully tempting.

“That night, at Jim’s, you said some things,” Archie starts as he looks behind him to make sure no one is coming up the stairs.  “You were drunk off your ass, mind you, but you know what they say about alcohol, right?”

“Humor me,” Mickey says as he crosses his arms.

“It’s liquid courage baby, and boy, did you have a lot of it.  It’s a good thing everyone was too far gone to pay attention to us, because you just let it all out, and – “

“Would you just get to the fucking point?” Mickey cuts him off. 

“But wait, I just have a few more details before – “

“Remember Liza,” Mickey barks, and the threat is clear.

Archie’s eyes grow to dinner plates, as he clutches the fabric of his shirt over his heart.  “That was a low blow,” he says dramatically.  “Fine, I’ll give it to you straight.  And I quote, _‘Ian’s in my dreams.  I know it’s him because I heard his voice.  And if the red hair and freckles isn’t enough of a giveaway.  Shit, I think I fuckin’ love him already.’_  Those were your exact words, a bit more slurred and animated than that, but you get my drift.”

Mickey remains quiet for a few seconds, straddling the line between shock and emptiness.  One side of him is throwing a fit that he actually said all of that, while the other side feels absolutely nothing.  “You tell anyone?” he finally asks.

“Of course not,” Archie assures him, which he hasn’t, although Ian almost got it out of him when he was working his mojo the next morning.  “And I don’t plan on telling anyone.  It’s not mine to tell.  It’s yours.”

“Thanks,” Mickey says lowly.  While it’s his to tell, a piece of him actually wants it to get back to Ian – makes his job easier.  It would be scary at first, but at least he wouldn’t have to do it, just deal with the aftermath.

“But do you want my advice?” Archie asks.

“No.”

“Good, here it is,” he waves off Mickey’s rejection, earning a serious eye roll.  “Tell him.  What do you have to lose?  I’ll tell you – absolutely nothing.  You have everything to gain here, and Ian doesn’t bite ok?”

_He does, a little_ , Mickey thinks to himself.  In that moment, all he feels are Ian’s teeth biting down on his bottom lip the way they did at his apartment that night of the mind-blowing blowjob and almost-sex.  “It’s not that simple Dr. Phil,” Mickey says to Archie who’s looking at him like he’s got everything and everyone figured out.

“You’re right, it’s not,” Archie responds, “but what will be harder is going through life, too scared to love someone you’ll love regardless and nonetheless.”

“Fuck!” Mickey snaps all of a sudden, startling Archie.  “Why do you always have to make so much fucking sense when I don’t want you to?”

Letting out a relieved breath after realizing Mickey wasn’t going to throw him to his death and end his too short and fabulous life, Archie laughs.  “Because you need me to,” Archie responds more solemnly.  His face becomes more serious as he studies the way Mickey’s eyes look so lost.  “I was in love with someone just like you once, remember?  I know what it’s like all too well for someone to run and run and run from who they really are, only to end up running in circles.  Jamaal tried to do that, until I tied his shoelaces together.”

“What’s that, some kind of figurative saying?”

“Yes, and no,” Archie smiles as he reminisces, “I really did tie his shoelaces together like a twelve year old right down there in that auditorium.  I was so fed up and in love and beside myself, and he was being a scared ass, so I tied his shoelaces together and he fell face first into the chairs when he stood.  He was so pissed,” Archie laughs as he remembers the look on Jamaal’s face that day.  “I laughed for a few seconds until I realized he was kinda hurt, so I ran over to him apologizing profusely.  Then he looked up at me and said, _“I’ma get you for this,”_ and I just laughed hysterically because…he already had me.”  Archie’s voice sounds almost sad as he speaks, and Mickey finds himself actually beginning to sympathize.  “We were inseparable ever since that day, and he told me months later that when I tied his shoelaces together, I tied myself to him.”

“Whoa,” Mickey says as he lets everything Archie just told him sink in.

“Hell of a story, huh?”

“No,” Mickey says he raises his brows, “it’s getting way too emotional in here man.”  Archie punches Mickey playfully in the arm.  He knows he got to Mickey, but he doesn’t need him to say it to know that’s exactly what he did.

_“Archie you up there?!_ Sophia calls from the floor below.  Archie rushes over to the edge of the booth to look down at a seemingly impatient Sophia who has her hands on her hips.  “There you are!” she yells as he peers down.

“Coming!” he responds.  Archie turns around to look at Mickey, who’s somewhat staring off into space as if thinking about something, or someone.  “Whatcha doing tonight?” he asks, snapping Mickey out of his own head.

“Tryna get shitfaced,” he answers Archie, “why?”

“Well, Sophia’s got a friend who goes to Berklee College of Music, and she’s performing one of her original pieces at an open mic night the college is having tonight.  You’re coming.”

“You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to go,” Mickey counters.

Archie eyes Mickey up and down incredulously before pausing to think for a second.  “Ok, you’re coming,” he says in a way only he can.  Mickey knows there’s no saying no to this guy.  “Besides, Ian will be there.”

Mickey thinks about saying something smart in response to that, but with Archie, there’s no point anymore.

////

There’s something about being bathed in darkness while your face is illuminated by just enough light to see the subtle movements your lips make while concentrating.  It’s captivating.  Mickey’s not  sure if it’s the ambience of the open mic night, but the way Ian’s lips curve up ever so slightly when someone’s performance is actually worth listening to makes him want to inhale him right there.  Everyone in this damn show sucks as far as he’s concerned, but he’s too busy internally thanking Archie for being, well, Archie, and purposely making him and Ian sit next to each other.  They’re still barely speaking, but Mickey’s somewhat ok with that.

He’s hoping he can change that by the end of the night.

“Enjoying the show?” Ian asks.  Mickey realizes he’s actually talking to him, snapping out of his daze, then realizes Ian’s probably just picked up on the way he’s been eye-fucking him in the dark for the past forty minutes.

“Not really,” Mickey finally responds as he manages to peel his eyes off of Ian.  “Everyone in this show sucks.”

“Shhhh!” Archie shushes Mickey as he nudges him in the side.  “People can hear you, ya know, and I don’t think anyone in this audience will appreciate you insulting their friends and family.  Besides, Indigo is up next.”

“Indigo?” Mickey huffs.  “That her real name?”

“Shhhhh!” Archie shushes him again, “lower your voice.  And yes, Indigo is her very real, legal, since birth name.”  Archie looks back towards the front after reprimanding Mickey just as the Owen Wilson look-alike on the stage strums his acoustic guitar fervently and tries to hit a high C.  Epic fail.  His voice cracks terribly, and Mickey finds himself snorting loudly.

“Horrible, I know,” Ian says as he leans in towards Mickey just enough for him to feel his body heat.  His face is still glued on the stage for the next few moments, before he turns to look Mickey directly in the face.  Their faces are less than a foot apart.  “Well, at least you were enjoying, _something_ ,” Ian suggests as his eyes carry over Mickey’s face until his eyes land on his lips.

Suddenly its a thousand degrees in the place and Mickey can’t seem to hold still.  He feels Ian’s fingers slide over his and he can’t seem to make himself fling his hand away.  The electricity is something otherworldly.  Just as he’s about to lose himself in his touch, Owen Wilson tries the high C yet again, this time eliciting more than a few chuckles from the audience.  It’s a smallish space, so the performer hears these laughs easily which causes him to frown and look unsure about his life choices.  Mickey snaps out of it, as does Ian, and they both join in with the low wave of laughter pulsating through the audience.

Archie’s’ face is screwed up as he looks around at everyone is utter disgust.  He’s all about not insulting an artist when they’re performing their craft, no matter how bad they are.  “Disgusting,” Archie huffs, “all of you.”

“He is pretty bad,” Ian says to Archie as he leans a bit over Mickey so he can hear him.  He smells like, brown sugar or some shit.  Mickey curses at himself for even noticing.  Ian lingers in that position for far too long.

“Whatever,” Archie says as he continues to look at the stage.  “Like you could do any better.”

“I could actually,” Ian says lowly just as he eyes Mickey, “a lot better.”

If Ian was trying to be suggestive, he’s succeeding wonderfully.  Mickey feels himself almost getting hard just at the way Ian is speaking.  Just as he feels himself about to say fuck it, and lunge forward, the crowd starts to clap just as Owen Wilson guy finishes his performance.  Mickey wonders if the crowd is applauding his performance, or the fact it’s over.

“If I didn’t agree to hear this chick sing, I’d blow this thing,” Mickey says as he leans back.  Ian finally puts his entire body back into his seat, a smile spreading across his face.

“I’d blow something else,” Ian hints suggestively.  He’s fucking flirting.  Mickey doesn’t know if he’s amused or turned on, because not even an hour ago, they looked at each other.  There goes that darkness again.  It brings people’s shadows out to play, and Mickey feels his clearly emerging.  Just as Mickey fixes his mouth to speak, a raspy voice blares loudly over the speakers.  It’s a girl with incredibly blue hair, long and wavy down her back.  Mickey’s guessing that’s Indigo.

“Guys, its Indigo!” Sophia loudly whispers from the end of the row they’re all sitting in.  Eli was dozing off, but wakes up at the sound of Sophia’s voice, or maybe it was her hand that came upside his head. 

After introducing herself, the blue-haired girl begins to play a ukulele, while a pianist accompanies her in the background.  Her voice is somewhat amazing, and suddenly Mickey finds himself interested in the show.  He’s looking straight ahead for the remainder of Indigo’s performance, but he’s fully aware of the way Ian glances at him every few minutes.

Indigo’s certainly has peaked Mickey’s interest, but it’s Ian who has him captivated.

////

After the open mic show, they end up at a small coffee shop a few blocks from Berklee.  _Coffee_.  Of all things, coffee is the last thing Mickey needs.  What he needs is a stiff drink (and a stiff dick really) to take all his edges off.  But Indigo, with her hippie, flower child dress and blue hair doesn’t drink because it messes with her _‘center’_ as she calls it.  It’s not like bars don’t sell water or cranberry juice.  The girl is a weirdo, but insanely talented Mickey must admit.  Not only was she badass on the ukulele, and he never thought he’d call anyone who played a ukulele badass, but she strummed a mean guitar as well.  She was a tiny girl, a whopping five feet tall, but her voice was well over seven feet.

“Great show Indy,” Sophia says as they all sit at a round table sipping organic coffees and teas.  Mickey’s drinking some mocha-caramel, double-shot, no whip, something, but he can’t seem to bring himself to remember the one hundred names the drink has – Archie ordered it for him.

“Thank you love,” Indigo says as she smiles around a massive mug of green tea.  “I really felt it right here, ya know?” she says as she points to the center of her chest.

Eli rolls his eyes as he stares at the ceiling.  He was 200% done with all of this since the show.  “Can we go drink already?” he says as he looks annoyingly around the table.

“I like the way you think,” Mickey chimes in as Davis nods his head in agreement.  Even Sophia is fighting back a serious yawn as Enya plays over the speakers.  If it weren’t for the caffeine they were consuming, they’d all be asleep to the hypnotic melodies.  Of course this earns them all a serious, disapproving frown from Archie.

“Of course you like the way he thinks,” Archie offers as he glares at Mickey across the table.  “You’re one step away from full-blown alcoholism.”

“One,” Mickey starts as he goes eye for eye with Archie, “I don’t give a shit, two, I’m from the Southside of Chicago, and three, so is everyone else at this table.”  Mickey sees Indigo give him the stink-eye, and quite frankly he couldn’t give half of a fuck, because the coffee shop is lame and he’s over this whole Feng Shui thing going on here.

“He’s got a point Archie,” Ian agrees.

“Your opinion doesn’t count here,” Archie waves off Ian.  He wants to tell him his point is irrelevant because he probably thinks the sun shines out of Mickey’s ass.  He could tell him the sky was pink and he’d believe him.  It was so cute – but still.

“It doesn’t?” Ian throws his hands up.  “And why is that?”

Just as Archie fixes his mouth to do what he does best, Ian’s phone buzzes on the table.  He picks it up as the rest of the gang resumes their previous conversations.  Mickey notices his face get really serious right before he answers his phone.  Instead of taking it at the table, the actor gets up hastily and makes his way out of the shop.  The front of the coffee shop is all glass windows, so it’s not hard for Mickey to see Ian speaking to the mystery person on the other end of the line in an animated fashion.  The way his eyebrows are furrowed lets Mickey know it’s not a good animated.

“Ugh, bad phone call I see,” Archie says from across the table.  “I wonder who it is.”

Mickey turns to glance at Archie who’s also watching Ian, before turning his attention back towards Ian.  After a few more moments of aggravated talking, Ian finally hangs up his phone, his finger pressing down multiple times on the touch screen as he obviously misses the hang-up button more than a few times.  He’s frustrated about something.  He takes a few deep breaths before coming back into the coffee shop, agitated as hell.

He sits down, but can’t seem to sit still as he runs his hands repeatedly through his hair.  “Got a cigarette?” Ian asks Mickey. 

“Uh, yeah,” Mickey responds as he fishes for a cigarette in his jacket pocket.

“Um, hello?” Archie calls from across the table.  “Ian, honey, you don’t smoke anymore, remember?”

“Yeah well, you don’t get highlights anymore, but that doesn’t mean you won’t go back during a time of crisis and vanity,” Ian says sarcastically just as Mickey hands him a cigarette and lighter.  Eli cackles loudly just as Archie lets out a startled breath.

“Low blow Ian, low blow!” Archie says loudly.  “That was a tough time in my life when I was addicted to getting highlights.  What can I say?  They made me feel like I was on Brad Pitt’s level or something, made me feel sexy.  Do not knock me for my darkest moments when vanity ruled my life.”

“Wait,” Mickey starts as he ogles Archie, “you were addicted to highlights?”

“No, I was addicted to vanity,” Archie corrects.  “It was a dark time in my life and I refuse to talk about it.”  Mickey lets out a loud wail as he laughs until he cries.  “Go ahead!  Laugh it up with your perfect shade of ebony black hair.  Not all of us have features that are stark contrasts that make us beautiful Mr. pretty blue eyes.”  Mickey can’t breathe.  He clutches his stomach as he continues to laugh.  He gathers himself when he sees Ian storm back out of the store, immediately lighting up the cigarette.

“What’s wrong with him?” Indigo asks as she watches Ian puff away.  “Something tells me his center is off kilter.”

“Nah, he’s just pissed about something.  I’ll go see to him,” Archie says as he stands to exit the shop.  He makes sure to shoot a red-faced Mickey a death glare as he waltzes out.  Outside, Ian is puffing on the cigarette like it’s a lifeline.  “You alright there?” Archie asks hesitantly.

Ian’s back is to Archie when he comes outside.  He turns around and nods his head.  “Uh, yeah, fine,” he lies as he feigns a smile. 

“C’mon baby, you know me better than that.  You know I can tell when something’s up,” Archie presses.

“It’s nothing,” Ian assures him.  “Just, dumb shit.”

“How dumb?”

“Dumb enough, ok?”

“Why don’t you just tell me about it?  Ian, I know that look, and you’re smoking for goodness sake.”  Archie moves closer to Ian, who turns his head to avoid eye contact.  He’s anxious.

“It’s Wes,” Ian finally caves.  “That’s who just called me.”

“Ok?  And as much as I hate that fucker, that’s bad why?”

Ian grows silent for a few moments before taking another long drag.  “I don’t know why I do stupid shit when I’m upset,” he says cryptically as he stares at the street light in front of the shop.  “And the stupid shit I do always comes back to haunt me.”

“Ian, I know I’m gifted in the realm of intuition, but you need to be more specific honey,” Archie says as he crosses his arms.

“Wes, he’s…getting attached to me again,” Ian offers.  He throws down the butt of the cigarette, crushing it out with the tip of his boot.  “I told him to leave me alone, ya know, that we couldn’t do this thing again, that he should focus on his engagement.  It was a onetime thing, but he’s not hearing me.  And you know what?  It’s all my fucking fault.”

“Ian, I don’t like the way this sounds,” Archie starts hesitantly, already knowing what’s coming next.  “What was a onetime thing?”

Ian finally looks at Archie, and for the first time in years, he looks lost the way he did when Wes first broke his heart, but this time around, the wound is obviously self-inflicted.  “That night I asked you for Mickey’s address, I went over there, obviously.  We, uh, did some things, but then he freaked and just threw me out.  Just like that.  I was so upset,” Ian says as he shoves his hands in his pocket.  “I ran over the Wes’ apartment right after that, and did something I shouldn’t have.  I only did it to make myself feel better, only to feel even shittier after.”

“Ian, what horrid act did you do?” Archie asks, even though he already knows, which is exactly why he calls it horrid.

“I slept with Wes, alright?!” Ian practically yells.  The door to the coffee shop closes, signaled by the bells strung from it jingling.  Ian and Archie turn their attention to the person now outside with them, who certainly just heard what Ian belted out.  It’s Mickey, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips.  There’s a look of disappointment that crosses his face fleetingly before he plays it off and tried his best to look normal.  But there’s no doubt in Ian or Archie’s mind that he heard.

“Just thought I have a smoke too,” Mickey says as he takes the cigarette from between his lips.  “On second thought, I think I’ll just head home.  I’m a bit tired.”

“But it’s not even ten on a Friday Mickey!” Archie calls out to him as the stage tech makes his way hastily up the street.

“Fuck!” Ian yells to the sky.  “He wasn’t supposed to hear that shit.”  He paces back and forth a few times, before stopping and taking a few deep breaths.  “I’m going after him,” Ian says as he begins to take off after Mickey.  He’s stopped by Archie grabbing his arm.

“How about let him cool off,” Archie says as he looks at Ian endearingly who’s unraveling in front of his face.

“We were almost back to being fine again,” Ian breathes out, exasperated.  “And now we’re right back to where we’ve been for the past two weeks.  No-fucking-where.”

“You’re not, trust me,” Archie assures him.  “But don’t you dare go after him.  Let him come after you this time.”

“But he won’t.”

“He will.  Just give it a little time.”

_Time_ , Ian thinks.  He’s beginning to hate it.  He’s done nothing but wait, whether it's for _the one_ , his own sanity or just someone to love him period.  He’s beginning to think he doesn’t have any more time.  But he trusts Archie.  Usually what he says is golden.

And not only that – he somehow trusts Mickey as well.

////

_Tonight his eyes are like blue paint, the way they’re brushing…brushing.  There’s no doubt in Ian’s mind that when he closed his own eyes, he was as bare as a blank canvas.  That changed when he fell asleep.  Those same mysterious eyes in his dreams are gliding ever so gently across his face, drawing lines in more than his subconscious – imprinting him as ‘his.’   Ian knows there’s a stroke of genius in the way they stare.  It’s so more than a look – its indelible art._

_He has yet to know who he is and yet he leaves his mark._

_“I could frame those,” Ian says to the eyes that slowly become surrounded by pale skin and contoured eyebrows that answer with a rise and fall.  It’s whimsical and suggestive.  He’s seen them before.  “What’s your name?” he asks._

_The mystery doesn’t speak.  Suddenly, Ian feels a piece of paper being slipped into his hand.  It’s folded, so he opens it, revealing one single letter._

Ian jolts out of his sleep, still upset from the earlier event of the evening.  He’d consider himself lucky if Mickey even looked at him on Monday.  He scrambles for his dream journal, afraid he may forget what he just saw.  Flipping on the light on his nightstand, he blinks his eyes frantically, trying to make them focus, as he grabs a pen, shuffling madly through the last few weeks of the same shit.  Gripping the pen, he writes down the single letter and stares at it.

_M._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant it when I tagged this "slow burn." Don't hate me ya'll, but the payoff will be worth it, I promise. I don't do smut, but I seriously put my all into that bj scene trying to make it as sexy as possible lol. Hey, at least they hooked up, right? Even if it wasn't all the way, they're getting somewhere. Mickey just needs a kick in the ass, and while Archie is just the one to do it, so is Mandy. He's coming around. I wrote parts of this chapter to "Younger" by Seinabo Sey as you can see, and a few other songs. Once again, I hope you enjoyed and thanks for reading! :)


	7. Don We Now Our Gay Apparel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I think I know who it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm always nervous when I post these updates. My intention was to post this on Christmas night, but the craziness of the holidays didn't allow me. Better late than never. :)

It’s hard to pretend when it’s just you in the room.  There’s no fooling your shadow.

By the time Mickey realizes he’s been waiting, it’s too late to refute what he’s been doing for the past hour.  He stares at his front door, pacing intermittently, ears peeled way the hell back for what he knows he won’t hear.  A buzz.  A knock.  His voice behind the door asking to be _let in_.  Mickey looks at the outline of himself on his wall and swears he sees his shadow cross its arms and shake its head.  _Wishful thinking_.

He’s an idiot for taking off so quickly, his wounded feelings like jet fuel under his feet.  He’s an even bigger idiot for being shocked at Ian’s big reveal about sleeping with Wes.  But his idiocy hit new heights when he actually thought Ian would come after him.  Mickey pictures him knocking, his voice pleading on the other side of the door.  He’d come inside and explain to him in apologetic tones that Wes meant nothing right before he’d shut the actor up with a bite to his bottom lip and they’d finish what they started nights ago.  He’d finally tell him who he is, see what freedom tastes like.

 It’s a scary thought and despite telling himself he wasn’t, Mickey was in fact, _waiting_ for Ian Gallagher.

He doesn’t come.

Mickey downs a third of vodka and free falls into his bed.  He thinks briefly about calling Archie and getting Ian’s address to go over there, but the thought is fleeting.  Too much Milkovich pride for that.  He closes his eyes, his own face prominent and reprimanding behind his eyelids.  _Tsk, tsk, tsk._

“Fuck off,” Mickey says in a drunken slur to himself right before dozing off. 

_He hears the echoes of his laughter in the background as he slips into REM sleep.  Ian is there of course.  He reaches out for him, but before he can touch him, Wes emerges from the shadows, grabs Ian’s hand and leads him away, but not before shooting Mickey an evil smirk.  Even in a dream the guy’s an asshole.  Ian turns and looks at Mickey, his eyes apologetic and longing.  But Wes grabs his chin and makes him look at him before they disappear.  Mickey wants to strangle him._

_Hell has no fury._

A loud ring wakes him up.  Mickey slowly opens his eyes and looks down at himself.  He’s still fully clothed, his t-shirt soaked through with sweat and sticking to him.  His cell phone continues to ring as he props himself up and grunts.  He’s been asleep for a few hours now, despite it feeling like ten minutes.  He looks at the time – it’s after 3am.  Who the fuck could be calling him at this God forsaken hour?  Ian’s name quickly passes through his mind and he feels his chest tighten.  But the feeling fades when he sees its Mandy calling him.

“What the actual fuck?” Mickey barks into the phone as he props himself up.

“Helloooo to you too asswipe,” Mandy barks back.  Her speech is slightly slurred, letting Mickey know she’s tied a few on herself.

“The hell do you want?  It’s after 3am.”

“You forgot?”

“Forgot what?”  There’s a considerable pause on the other end of the line before Mandy finally lets out a long breath.

“Of fucking course,” she says derisively.  “I knew you’d forget dumbass.  What, are you too in love with that ginger fuck to think straight?”

“What?”

“I mean, he is red sex on a stick,” she continues to babble, “and if I were you’d I’d be fucked in the head – “

“Mandy!” Mickey wails into the phone, cutting his sister off.  He’s way too fucked up for this, and maybe he’s a bit sick over Ian Gallagher, but she doesn’t have to know that.  “Would you tell me what the fuck you’re gettin’ at?  Otherwise, goodnight.”

“Ok, chill bro,” Mandy acquiesces.  “You were supposed to call my ass tonight to discuss the plan for me coming to Boston for Christmas.  Remember our texts yesterday?  And the day before that?  And the day before – “

“Christ!  I got it!” Mickey interrupts.  Now he remembers.  Mickey inwardly groans because Ian’s got his head in a mess.  “Shit Mands, slipped my mind.”

“You’re an asshole, you know that?”

“Stop bustin’ my balls.  We can talk later today, alright?  You know, when it’s not three in the fucking morning,” he huffs. 

Mickey closes his eyes and rubs them with his fingers, inwardly cursing at himself when he sees Ian’s face.  If he wants his memory to be at least half effective, he’ll have to avoid getting close enough to the actor where he can see his freckles.  Because it’s always the freckles.  They make him forget his own name sometimes.

“I swear to God Mickey you better call me,” Mandy warns.  “My plane ticket ain’t gonna buy itself.”

“Yeah ok, whatever,” Mickey responds.  Leave it to him to promise his sister a plane ticket to Boston for the holidays.  It’s not like he’s rolling in the dough, but he’s above average when it comes to crunching numbers.  He’s able to swing it.  “Talk to you later.”

“You better,” Mandy warns again.  “Oh and Mickey?”

“What?” he snaps.  This conversation was already too long five minutes ago.

“What the fuck is taking you so long?” she asks.  Her question is obviously rhetorical as the other end of the line goes dead before Mickey can answer.

Classic Mandy.  Brash.  Presumptuous. Unapologetic.  So reminiscent of himself.  If only he could take those characteristics and apply them to his romantic life.  Mickey breathes in deeply and looks at his clock.  It’s 3:34am and he feels a pulling in his chest he can’t explain.  Or maybe he can.  He falls back into his bed, his eyes focusing on the ceiling.  _What’s taking so long?_  

“Me,” he responds quietly to himself – and his shadow.

////

3:35am.  Ian blinks at his clock as he once again jolts out of his sleep.  There’s a pulling in his chest he dares to explain.  He closes his eyes and sees the letter M and those blue eyes – the same ones he just knows ran away from him earlier.  It’s an _Aha!_ moment for him as he begins to connect the dots.  There are no more white holes.  The film’s no longer melting in the projector.

He has yet to see a full image, but he’s so close, too close to not realize.  He certainly feels it already, and the sensations are oddly reminiscent of someone he’s already touched, grabbed – _kissed_.  He’s so close he can almost taste it.

And he tells himself this is what freedom must taste like.

////

“I think I know who it is.”

Archie raises his brows as he eyes Ian.  His sudden and quite random declaration has him shuffling the things around in his already overcrowded mind to try and figure out what he’s talking about.  Christmas is merely a week away, and anyone who knows Archie, knows he can’t think beyond ugly sweaters, colored lights and tinsel.  ‘Tis the Season and he’s planning for festivities – so he asks Ian, instead.

“I’m sorry babe,” Archie says as he unceremoniously tosses a bunch of lights and boxes of shiny ornaments into his cart, “you know I can’t process things while shopping for decorations.  What are you talking about?”  He turns towards Ian as they stand in one of the aisles at Michael’s. 

After rehearsal, he told everyone he was going to pick up some things for the cast Christmas party to take place at the theater after the production, and also for Jim’s place.  For some reason, Ian had volunteered to come with him.  Archie didn’t need to probe the actor to know that something was on his mind.  Everyone knows he can be an evil queen if you got in his way or slowed him down while holiday shopping.  Ian must have been desperate to get something off of his chest to take his chances.  It was his funeral.

Ian smiles hesitantly before running his hand through his hair.  “My soulmate,” he says apprehensively, “I think…or I’m pretty sure I know who it is.”

“You think?” Archie asks as he crosses his arms.  He’s known the red head long enough to know he never second guesses himself.  “C’mon, Ian honey, I know you better than that.  Either you know, or you don’t.”

Or maybe he was afraid to know.  Ian was beginning to admit that to himself.

“Well,” Ian breathes out, “it’s weird, because they still have yet to fully show themselves, but I have enough clues to assume who it is.  I swear Archie, if it was a snake it would’ve bitten me in the ass.”

“And a fine ass indeed.  Score for the snake,” Archie quips as he grins, earning a serious eye roll from Ian.  Trying to keep it semi-serious, the brunette retracts the joke, straightens his back and smiles apologetically.  He knows how much this means to Ian.  “Don’t have a baby, I’m kidding.  Who’s the lucky guy?”  Archie’s playing along at this point.  He’s known for weeks now, but he wants to make sure Ian knows himself without ruining the moment.

“Mickey,” Ian finally says quickly.  Archie plays it cool, and shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly, pretending to be unmoved by Ian’s long awaited epiphany, while inwardly screaming, _“It’s about fucking time!”_   He can be impatient for things sometimes, and he’s surprised he managed to wait this long, refraining from pulling the cloak off of the surprise, so the relief he’s feeling can’t be described.  Another thing people know about Archie – he sings like a bird when it comes to secrets.  He’s glad he can talk about it now, but approaches what he says next with caution, because Ian still seems uncertain.

“How do you know?” Archie asks, still remaining as demure as possible.

“I got a letter in a dream,” Ian starts as they begin to walk the aisles again, “the letter M.  But it’s not just that.  It’s the blue eyes I keep seeing.  At first they weren’t as definitive, just blue.  Now, they seem so familiar, and every time I see Mickey, it’s like I’m dreaming again.  It’s weird, I can’t explain it.”

“No need,” Archie says as he spins around with some gold, loose garland in his hands.  He wraps it around Ian’s neck and grins devilishly.  “Well I’ll be Mr. Gallagher,” he begins as he continues to playfully wrap the garland around his neck, “sounds like you’re having yourself a major case of déjà vu.  It’s quite common for people when they see _the one_ in person during the advanced stages of their dreams.”

Ian chuckles, amused by Archie’s garland act.  It makes him feel better, because truth be told, the awkwardness between him and Mickey had returned full throttle after it was revealed he’d slept with Wes in a moment of stupidity and weakness.  It got even more awkward when Wes randomly popped up after Monday’s rehearsal, begging Ian to talk.  Mickey didn’t try to hide the look of disgust on his face, indicative of being one second from charging the guy.  But he simply balled his fists and walked briskly away without word. 

Needless to say, Ian’s been sort of a wreck.  Lately, Archie’s been the only person who’s made him feel grounded.  Even Sophia, Davis and Eli struggle with being around him while his moods vacillate.  Archie somehow knows how to deal with his many moods, grab them, and contain them.  He always turns them into something good.

“Alright, alright Mademoiselle,” Ian laughs as he removes the garland, “you could be right.”

“Could be?” Archie challenges.  ‘Could be’ for him is equivalent to not knowing shit.  He’s always right – except maybe when it comes to how to properly coordinate the right pants with an ugly Christmas sweater.  That shit’s tricky.

“Ok, you’re right,” Ian caves, “but I’m still not one hundred on this.  I need actual proof, full proof.”

“It’ll come out,” Archie says as he grabs a handful of something familiar, “and looks like we’re gonna need lots of these.  Because like my daddy always says, _‘Archie son, what’s in the dark always comes to the light.’”_   The brunette then turns, revealing a handful of exactly what Ian had suspected.  “For insurance,” he says as he dangles the items in front of his face.

“Mistletoe?” Ian snorts.  “Christ Archie, that’s enough to hang in every entrance of the theater, _and_ Jim’s place.”

“That’s the point.”

“And for insurance?” Ian asks, already knowing where his friend is headed with this.

“In case your dream guy decides to act a fool,” Archie says as he holds one of the mistletoe above Ian’s head.  He then leans in and plants a kiss on his cheek, before pulling back.  “He won’t be able to escape the mistletoe.  He’ll at least have to plant one on you.”

“Like he’ll ever do that.”

“He’ll have to.”

“Says who?” Ian asks as they make their way to the register.

“Says the mistletoe Ian.  It’s practically the law during the Christmas season.”  Ian lets out a huge snort as the items are being rung up, earning a glare from Archie.  “No?” he challenges, hands now planted firmly on his hips.  “Well then, I say,” Archie counters Ian’s second string of snorts, “and I _am_ the law.”

Ian throws up his hands in surrender as Archie’s face only grows more serious with his every move.  He’s never doubted the law of Archie, and doesn’t intend on starting.  “Well then I guess he’ll have no choice,” Ian laughs as they exit the store with the items.

“’Course he won’t,” Archie smiles.  “You just wait.”

As ludicrous as it all sounds, Ian tells himself he may just do that – wait.

////

_“Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa la la la – “_

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey bites, cutting off an all too jovial Archie.  The lighting booth is too small for this shit, no room for Christmas spirit.  It’s bad enough he has to see Ian’s face every day, and to have to listen to Archie sing every Christmas carol he knows terribly off key, is too much to go with that frustration.  Mickey’s already pissed he practically gets a hard on every time he’s within ten feet of Ian.   

“Ugh,” Archie groans, “I think I’m gonna stop calling you grumpelstiltskin for a while and switch to Mr. Grinch.  Where’s your Christmas spirit?”

“Stuck in the right key, someplace your singing isn’t,” Mickey responds sarcastically.  “Hit the right note, and maybe my Christmas spirit will be released.”  He then turns to face Archie who’s clearly insulted.  “On second thought, no, no it won’t.”

“That bad huh?” Archie asks as he returns to his lighting duties.  His skill level’s far beyond just working lighting, has been for years, but he’s somehow convinced Jim that Mickey needs some guidance a little while longer.  Really, it’s just to fuck with the Southside brute, because truth be told he’s got natural born talent.  But it’s too fun not to mess with him.

“What?” Mickey asks, his back now turned as he looks down towards the stage.  Ian isn’t on yet, but stands to the side of the stage, obscured slightly by the curtains.  Every now and again, Mickey sees him throw his head back and laugh as he talks with one of the cast members, waiting for the next set.  Something so simple shouldn’t have such a complicated effect on him.  But it does.

“Your feelings for him,” Archie finally responds. 

On a normal day, this is the point where Mickey usually rejects Archie’s theories about his feelings for Ian.  But this day is far from normal.  Denying anything at this stage in the game is a waste of time and energy, so this time around, he remains silent for a few moments.  He lets the words be, because in all honesty – there’s nothing false about them.  Mickey lets out an exasperated breath as Archie stands next to him, placing his forearms on the edge of the balcony.

“You gonna give me some unsolicited advice now?” Mickey says as he continues to look down at the stage.  “My sister does enough of that shit.”

“Awww, you talk to your sister about all of this?”

“Not voluntarily,” Mickey says as he finally faces Archie.  He’s smiling goofily, waiting for him to continue.  “Do you have to smile like that?”

“Yes,” Archie answers quickly, his smile widening. 

Mickey rolls his eyes and actually lets a small smile spread on his lips.  Archie’s fucking contagious.  “Well, like I was saying, I never initiate talking about this with Mandy.  She’s a lot like you actually, all intuitive and shit.”  Archie preens at the remark about his intuition – it’s one of his best characteristics.  Mickey snorts at the narcissistic look on his face.  “Don’t flatter yourself sweetheart.”

“No worries, I will,” Archie offers confidently.  “But if your sister’s like me, then she’s probably a cut past the bullshit type of girl.  I would love to meet her one day.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Mickey says derisively.  “She’s coming for Christmas, so you’ll get to experience her first hand.”

“Oh my gosh that’s so exciting!” Archie claps his hands together.

“You say that now.”

“Why so cynical?” Archie asks.  “Is it because she’ll tell you how it is?  I bet she probably tells you what you’re thinking before you say anything.”

“Something like that.”

“Probably pushes you, tells you to get off your ass and stop making excuses?”

“Maybe.”

Archie laughs before he jabs Mickey a few times in his ribs with his pointer finger.  It makes him yelp, and for a second he looks like he may punch him in the face, but his expression softens when he realizes – this is just classic Archie.  “Then what the fuck is taking you so long?!” he practically yells in Mickey’s ear.

“You sound like my fucking sister!” Mickey yells back.

“Good!  Now you’ve got two sisters to light a match under your ass!”  Archie crosses his arms and Mickey tightens his jaw.  They have a Mexican stand-off in the lighting booth, Mickey refusing to answer Archie’s question, Archie refusing to stop expecting one.  They both stand firm for what seems like an eternity, before a voice calls from the floor below, interrupting their struggle for dominance.

“I needed that center spotlight like yesterday!” Jim yells from below.

Mickey looks towards the lower level to see a frustrated Jim with his arms crossed.  He obviously missed his cue, probably a few times.  “Sorry!” he yells down to his boss who only shakes his head up at him, and Archie.

“Take it from the top of the scene!” Jim calls out to the cast on the stage.  He then looks back up at Mickey and Archie who are now both looking down at him.  “What are you two doing up there?  Bickering like siblings?” he asks.  He hit the nail on the head.  They were obviously louder than they thought.  “And you,” he points to Archie, “I’m putting you back on stage design and props.”

“But Mickey needs – “

“To the stage Archie!” Jim yells up at his partner.  “Mickey’s a natural, he can handle it.  I’m just not so sure he can handle you,” he says deliberately, before turning to walk back towards the stage.

Mickey lets out a chuckle that makes Archie’s face turn red, earning a death glare from him.  “This ain’t over Milkovich,” he points at Mickey.  “Jim always lets me get my way eventually.  I’ll be back,” he warns.

“Yeah, whatever,” Mickey continues to laugh.

“Still wanna know what’s taking you so long bitch.” 

“You’ll never know sis,” Mickey picks, “now get your ass downstairs.”

Archie narrows his eyes on Mickey.  “And get the molasses outta yours,” he says before spinning around dramatically and stomping off down the stairs.

Mickey simply snorts as he turns around to refocus himself.  Great, now he has two Mandys in his life.  That’s the last fucking thing he needs.  What’s taking him so long?  He’s getting real tired of that stupid question.  He looks back towards the stage, immediately taking notice that Ian isn’t on it.  It seems Jim is letting the cast have a brief intermission.  He scans his eyes over the auditorium seats, and sees something that nearly sets him off. 

Towards the far right of the auditorium, Mickey sees Ian sitting in one of the chairs, and next to him is none other than Mr. Wesley Brighton.  They’re sitting close, too close, Ian’s face deep in concentration as Wes seemingly pleads something to him.  Mickey feels his heart rate pick up.

Jim signals for everyone to take their places after about five minutes, Ian jumping to his feet to go back to his post.  But Wes doesn’t leave.  He stays planted in his seat, his eyes following Ian.  Obviously, he’s intending to stay, probably to plead to Ian some more after rehearsal.  Mickey huffs as he develops tunnel vision on the Ian Somerhalder knock-off.

This is also what’s taking him so fucking long.

////

As soon as rehearsal ends, Mickey finds his feet acting faster than his mind.  He takes off down the stairs to make his way to the auditorium.  He has no intention to storm off this time.  Nope.

He scans the cast members all standing around and immediately zeros in on Ian and Wes talking in a corner.  Archie is nearby, not surprisingly, trying his best to seem inconspicuous as he eaves drops on the two.  He’s pretending to talk to another stage tech, the one Mickey calls Gappy and knows for a fact he secretly loathes.  Archie calls his stage techniques subpar and cracks jokes about taking tours in the guy’s mouth, the next tooth always being one mile.  He isn’t fooling anyone.  And for that matter, neither is Mickey as he walks briskly towards Ian, who seems to be upset about something.

“Hey Mickey!” a voice calls from behind him, stopping him.  He turns around to see Sophia grinning at him.  He tries his best to not roll his eyes – he’s on a mission. 

“Hey,” he says quickly, turning back around to look at Ian and Wes still in a private discussion that looks to be getting rather heated. 

“We’re gonna go get pizza,” Sophia says just as he turns back around, “me, Davis, Eli, you know, the usual.  Although Ian seems to be…occupied right now.  I may not even ask him.”  She peers around Mickey to get a glimpse of Ian who’s now talking with his hands.  “Anyways,” she continues, “wanna come?”  

“Uh, no thanks,” he answers quickly before turning back around to continue making his way towards Ian and Wes to say and/or do God knows what.

“You sure?” she presses.

Mickey stops and turns around again, exasperated.  “I’m sure,” he answers impatiently.  He walks off briskly just as Sophia shrugs her shoulders, unfazed.

At this point, his feet are doing the thinking, taking him towards Ian and his new shadow.  Mickey has no clue what he’s about to say, or how he plans on peeling Ian away from Wes, but he continues moving forward, eyes pointed and fists balled just in case.  He swallows hard, somewhat taken aback by the sudden need to be protective of him.  It nearly startles him when he sees Ian swat Wes’ hands off of him, and all he sees is red.  He’s furious.  Suddenly Mandy’s voice is loud in the back of his head.

_Proceed with abandon._

“Hey,” Mickey says to Ian as he walks up to him.  Ian’s eyebrows furrow as a confused look washes over his face.  His cheeks are slightly flushed, but not the kind of flush you get from someone giving you butterflies – it’s the kind you get when someone’s rubbed you the wrong way.

“H-hey Mick,” Ian says hesitantly, seemingly shocked Mickey’s even speaking to him.  Mickey has no clue what he’s about to say, but he doesn’t give a fuck because the way Wes spins around with his shoulders squared like he’s looking for trouble has just turned off any filters he never really had in the first place.  Anything that comes out of his mouth at this point will be purely primal, but before he can say anything, Wes gets the hint and beats him to it.

“Yeah, hey _Mick_ ,” Wes says sharply, “Can’t you see we’re talkin’ here?”  His tone is mocking, which only makes Mickey laugh as he pinches the bridge of his nose.  He’s amused.

“Yeah, so?  What’s your point?” Mickey challenges.  He shoots Wes deadly look before turning back towards Ian.  “Can I talk to you for a minute?” he asks.  Ian opens his mouth to respond, only to be cut off.

“Look, do you mind?” Wes interjects, his voice getting louder.  Little does he know Mickey lives for shit like this.  Getting loud with him only adds fuel to his fire.

“Actually I don’t give a shit,” Mickey says as he gets right up in Wes’ face. 

“You’re an asshole, you know that?” Wes asks rhetorically as he eyes Mickey.  Clearly, he’s now trying to see who has the bigger dick.  But Mickey knows from experience, it’s not about the size – it’s how you use it.

“All my life.  Anything else?  Because if _you_ don’t mind, I need to talk to Ian here.  It’s important.” 

“You know what?  I do mind!”  Wes is practically yelling at this point, Ian’s eyes the size of saucers as he takes note of what’s unfolding.  “We were having a conversation before you rudely interrupted.”

“Looked like he didn’t wanna be bothered if you ask me,” Mickey continues to press.

“Who are you, his boyfriend?” Wes asks.  Mickey opens his mouth to respond, but pauses.  He closes it and swallows the words he almost let slip.  _I’m his soulmate fucker._ He looks at Ian who’s speaking to him subliminally with his eyes, thanking him and communicating _something else_.  Mickey doesn’t deny the accusation, and he can’t bring himself to.

“Doesn’t matter what he is,” Ian chimes in.  He smiles quickly at Mickey before narrowing his eyes on Wes.  “Look, Wes, I told you, I don’t wanna talk to you about this.  It’s over.”  Ian then walks up to Mickey, that same smile reappearing in the corner of his mouth.  “You wanted to talk to me about something?”

“Y-yeah,” Mickey responds, nearly forgetting he even said that.  He really didn’t have anything to talk to him about, his sole purpose being to get Ian away from Wes.  Ian motions for him to follow him towards the back of the theater. 

“Ian!” Wes reaches out to grab Ian’s arm, only to be stopped by a tattooed hand, branded with _FUCK_ and sure to do damage if pushed.  Mickey stops him from grabbing Ian and flicks his hand away like mere dust.

“Maybe you don’t speak fucking English,” Mickey says, his tone protective, “but he said it’s over.  So you might wanna do yourself a favor and walk… _away_.”  It doesn’t take long for Wes to get the hint from the dangerous glint in Mickey’s eyes.  He backs off, but not before shooting him an evil smirk – the same one from his dream.  “That’s right, fuck off,” Mickey barks as Wes finally walks away.  But something tells him they haven’t seen the last of him.

“It was nice seeing you again Wesley!” Archie mocks and waves as Wes storms by him.  “Fucker.”

Mickey and Ian finally make it to the back of the theater just as the door slams from Wes’ departure.  Ian leans against the wall casually and there’s something in his eyes that nearly makes Mickey lose his breath.  “Words cannot express,” Ian says through a grin.  “You saved me from committing homicide.  Thank you.”  Mickey feels his face heat up as he thinks of the proper response.  He struggles to hide his blush, which he knows Ian’s noticed by now.

“No problem,” Mickey says as he looks away from Ian.  He can see the gentle spray of his freckles down his neck.  “Guy’s an asshole, he deserved it,” he nearly chokes out.

“So you wanted to talk to me about something?” Ian asks after a brief pause. 

_Right._  Mickey quickly rattles his brain, thinking of something to say being he had nothing to say in the first place.  He looks over towards a slack-jawed Archie who smirks at him, clearly seeing the fumble happening in slow motion.  He looks up at Ian and nearly loses his words again.  He blurts out the first thing that comes to his mind.  “Uh,” Mickey starts, “Sophia wants to know if you wanna get pizza.”  _Fumble._

Ian frowns and stares at Mickey with a confused look on his face.  He obviously knows what he just said is utter bullshit.  “Mickey,” Ian starts as he stands up straight, “that was the important thing you wanted to talk to me about?  Pizza?”

Mickey shrugs his shoulders, trying to play it cool.  “Yeah man.” 

“Ok,” Ian responds, “I’ll buy that answer…for now.” 

Right before Mickey can respond to that, a voice comes booming from behind.  “Mickey!  Baby!  The fuck was that?!” Archie says loudly as he throws his arm around Mickey’s shoulder. 

“The fuck are you talkin’ about Archie?” Mickey asks as he side-eyes him furiously.

“You being all protective back there.”  Archie looks up at Ian and winks before turning his attention back to Mickey.  “You know, it’s a good thing you interjected.  I was a minute away from jumping on the jerk myself.”

“Like hell you were.  You were too busy eaves dropping, pretending to talk to Gappy back there,” Mckey responds as he removes Archie’s arm.  “And while me and Somerhalder Jr. were goin’ at it, you were too busy looking for popcorn to enjoy the show.”

Archie lets out a gasp as he clutches his heart.  “I can’t take these accusations.  How dare.”

“I’m too hungry for this shit,” Mickey says as he begins to make his way towards Sophia, Davis and Eli, Ian close on his heels.

“No shame in protecting your man!” Archie calls out behind him as he follows.  Mickey doesn’t even turn around to acknowledge his comment.  He’s already done enough damage to himself.

As the threesome approach Sophia, she turns and smiles.  Her grin quickly turns into a baffled look as she eyes Mickey who now appears to be coming with them.  “Hey, I thought you said – “

“Changed my mind,” Mickey cuts her off as he walks by her quickly. 

Sophia looks at Archie as they exchange knowing glances.  “Or maybe _he_ changed his mind,” she says to him quietly as she nods her head in Ian’s direction.

////

A string of loud, obnoxious knocks assault his front door.  He already knows who it is.  “Douchebag!” Mickey greets Mandy as he opens his door.  He’s met by her signature scowl.

“Assface!” she greets back as she waltzes into his apartment.  She drops her bags on the floor and Southside pirouettes around before suddenly landing her boney fist into his arm.

“Ow!  Bitch!  What the fuck?!” Mickey wails as he grabs the throbbing spot now on his bicep.

“You could’ve met me at the airport!” she says as she lands another punch into his arm.

“Fuck!” Mickey cries out, ducking the next punch aimed at his face.  “I called you a cab didn’t I?!”

“Fuck that shit!” Mandy screams.  “I had to carry my bags by myself!  I had to fucking decipher what the cab driver was saying with his stupid Boston accent!  Way to welcome your little sister to a new city motherfucker!”  She charges at him again, but he turns his back towards her.  She does the next best thing and jumps on his back, placing him in a signature Milkovich chokehold.  They crash backwards onto his couch, Mandy’s arms still wrapped tight around Mickey’s neck.

“Christ!” Mickey says as he struggles for air.  “You…tryna…kill me?”

“Yes!” Mandy screams into his ear as she locks her legs around his chest.  “You know I wanted to see you as soon as I landed!”

Mickey begins to tap out on the couch.  After a few more moments of struggle, Mandy finally releases her grip and kicks him off of her.  He lands on his knees on the floor, massaging his neck with both of his hands as he gasps for air.  Mandy’s skinny, but she’s fucking strong.

“I’m sorry alright!  Jesus!” he breathes out.  He feels her now hovering above him and takes his chances, looking up.  He knows it could be a stupid move, but he does it anyway.  He’s certain he sees the face of Satan as she smiles devilishly down at him.

“It’s ok,” she offers, “I know you’ll make it up to me while I’m here.”  In the language Milkovich, that’s definitely a threat.  Mickey knows he’ll have to bribe her with some fancy Christmas gift like a new iPod or a Kindle if he wants to wake up with his balls still intact. 

Mandy grabs Mickey by his arm and helps him to his feet.  Once he’s standing, she throws her arms around his neck again, this time as a hug.  She squeezes him gently, Mickey reciprocating the gesture.  He realizes he misses her, even when she’s a raging lunatic.  “Missed ya,” he says into her hair as they continue to embrace.

“I know,” she says as she pulls away and smiles.  She gabs her bags and tosses them onto the couch, opens the biggest one and pulls out a giant bottle of Jack Daniels and hands it to him.  “Merry Christmas asswipe.”

“Single Barrel Select?  Fucking nice,” Mickey admires the bottle as he runs his hands over it.  He stops and thinks for a minute, because this stuff doesn’t come that cheap.  He also wonders how the hell Mandy managed to get through airport security with it.  “Wait?  How the fuck did you smuggle this shit here?”

“I didn’t dumbass,” Mandy says as she rummages through her bag.  “I had the cabbie take me to the nearest liquor store before coming here.  Just bought that shit.”

“This is expensive Mands.”

“It’s not that expensive.  And would you just shut the fuck up and enjoy your gift?  Besides, Iggy owed me money, so don’t worry.”

“Thanks,” Mickey says as he walks the bottle over to his cabinets.  “But I ain’t drinking this for at least a year.”  Mickey’s glad he got her something halfway decent for Christmas.

“So where’s my gift?” she asks him as he makes his way back into the living room.

“Christmas isn’t for two days.  You gotta wait.”

“Can I at least get it after the show tomorrow?” she asks.

“I’ll consider it.  I mean, it’ll at least be Christmas Eve,” Mickey offers as he plops down on the couch.  “There’s also this party we have to go to after the production.  It’s a stupid fucking ugly Christmas sweater party.  Archie warned me to bring a sweater to change into, otherwise he’ll have my balls.”

“Sounds like my kinda guy,” Mandy smirks.

“Your twin actually,” Mickey snorts as he thinks of the sisterhood bound to blossom between the two when they meet.

“So did you buy a sweater?  I bought one for myself just in case.”

Mickey scoffs as he looks up at his sister.  “The hell do I look like?  ‘Course not.”  Mandy sits down next to her brother and kicks off her boots.  She looks at him and shrugs.

“Well then, I guess he’ll just have your balls then won’t he?” she laughs.  “That is, if Ian doesn’t get them first.

_Ian._  The guy’s been like a little puppy at rehearsals ever since the Wes incident.  Mickey can’t bring himself to say he doesn’t like it, because he does.  He rubs his hands over his face as he thinks about him.  He may be cracking open that bottle of Jack sooner than later.

////

Mickey jumps out of bed, his tank top soaked through.  He looks down and grunts at the aftermath of the dream he just had.  It’s never been this detailed.  He walks out to his kitchen, not trying to be quiet about it as he opens his freezer and tosses a bunch of ice cubes into a glass.  He runs the tap and nearly drops his water when Mandy shoots up on the couch and screams bloody murder.  He forgot she was there.

“Could you be any fucking louder?!” she screams from the couch.  “A girl’s tryna sleep here!”  Mickey ducks as a balled up pair of socks comes sailing at his head.  He straightens himself back up and just lets out a frustrated breath.  He doesn’t even have the energy to retaliate.

He starts to make his way back to his room quickly, thankful the living room is dark.  When he sits on his bed, he looks down at his boxers and groans, trying to will away his boner.  Of course it doesn’t go anywhere, so he has to make it go.  He lies on his back and slides his right hand into his boxers and begins to stroke himself as he thinks of his dream.  It doesn’t take long at all.

It was after all, the first wet dream he’s had of Ian.

////

“How do I look?”

Mickey rolls his eyes as he and Mandy step off of the T.  It’s the one hundredth time she’s asked him that question.  She had already changed at his apartment three times, whirling and twirling as she asked him his opinion about three outfits that all looked the same to him.  For some reason, Mandy all of a sudden felt as if her style was too ‘Southside’ to go to what she considered a swanky theater in the city of Boston.  Mickey tried to convince her there were parts of Boston that weren’t much different from the Southside.

Still, she needed to look her absolute best despite the fact an ugly ass sweater was getting thrown over her outfit after the play.

“For the umpteenth time,” Mickey huffs as they make their way inside the theater, “you look fine.”

“Just don’t wanna look outta place, ya know?” she says as tugs at the hem of her skirt.  She opted for a black, box-pleated A-line skirt, a red button-up blouse and knee-high black boots.

“Trust me, you won’t,” Mickey offers as he reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out Mandy’s ticket.  “Here’s your ticket, so you can go get seated.”  Just as Mandy grabs her ticket, an all too familiar face passes by and shoots Mickey a smile.  Mandy’s bottom lip nearly hits the floor as she eyes one all too gorgeous red head make his way to the dressing rooms.

“Oh my God,” she says, her mouth still hanging open.  “That’s him, isn’t it?  Ian?  Holy shit he’s even more gorgeous than I remember him!” she says loudly.

“Would you keep your fucking voice down?” Mickey reprimands his sister who’s still staring starry eyed at Ian as he disappears.

Mandy waves off Mickey as she peers over the crowd of people, trying to see if she can get one last glimpse of the actor.  She turns around once she realizes he’s out of sight, throwing her hand on her chest as she takes a few deep breaths.  “Shit bro, I see why you’ve been fucked in the head lately.  Ian, he’s – “

“A real dream?” a voice interjects.  Mickey turns around to none other than Archie sporting the ugliest Chirstmas sweater he’s ever seen, along with an even uglier grin.  “You must be, Mandy?”

Mandy smiles coyly as Mickey rolls his eyes all the way into the back of his head.  “Mandy, this is Archie, Archie, Mandy,” Mickey quickly introduces them.

“Well well, I’ve heard a lot about you sweetheart,” Archie smiles as he extends his hand.  Mandy takes it and shakes as she smiles back.

“Good things I hope,” she responds.

“The worst,” Archie quips.

“Well then I guess he’s waking up without testicles tomorrow.”

“My kinda girl.” 

Mickey inwardly groans, because this is exactly what he expected to happen.  “You two done?” Mickey huffs as he eyes Archie’s sweater again.  “And that is the ugliest fucking sweater I’ve ever seen.  Rudolph?  Really?”

“Well that’s the point Mr. Grinch.  It’s called an ugly Christmas sweater party.  I of course opted to wear mine now.”  Archie then scans his eyes over Mickey’s frame.  “And where might your ugly sweater be?  I hope it’s in that bag your sister’s carrying.”

“Of course it isn’t,” Mandy answers before Mickey can.  “Mine is though,” she grins.

Archie then begins to rummage through a bag he’s holding and pulls out what looks to be a sweater and hands it to Mickey.  “For insurance, I bought an extra,” he says as he pushes the sweater off into Mickey’s hand.  “Well, really I bought it for you since I knew you’d be your cute little brute self, and refuse to bring or wear one.”

Mickey unfolds the sweater and nearly throws up in his mouth.  “I’m not fucking wearing this,” he says as eyes the red sweater.  Mandy peeps over his shoulder to get a glimpse of the monstrosity and lets out a huge snort.  “Yeah, real funny,” he says to his sister before looking incredulously at Archie.  “Mrs. Claus?  Are you fucking serious?”  The red sweater has white snowflakes all over it, with a giant white heart containing a picture of a winking Mrs. Claus in the middle. 

“I’m very serious,” Archie laughs.  “And no worries, Ian’s sweater is almost identical, except his is Santa himself, winking away at his sweetie as well.”

“How do you know that?” Mickey asks.

“Why dear, I bought it for him,” Archie offers as he winks.

“This is so fucking gay,” Mickey grumbles as he balls up the sweater, doing his best to smother Mrs. Claus.

“Well,” Archie walks up to Mickey and pats him on the shoulder, “Don we now our gay apparel,” he laughs.  He smiles at Mandy before winking and making his way to his post.  “Nice meeting you Mandy.”

“Nice meeting you too,” she responds as Archie waltzes away happily.  “Can I keep him?” Mandy asks as she grins at her brother.  Mickey simply shakes his head and walks away to get to his post.

He tosses the sweater on the bench when he makes it to the lighting booth and grimaces at the thought of him in the thing.  There’s no way he’s wearing that shit. 

No fucking way.

////

Mandy takes her seat in the theater and looks around as the lights dim.  This is her first time at a major theater production.  She looks up towards Mickey’s station and smiles.  It’s still so unreal to her how far he’s come.

A voice fills the auditorium as lighting reappears, and a few spotlights hit the stage.  Mandy doesn’t remember much about Love, Actually.  She was high out of her mind the first time she watched it, but she remembers the beginning.  The monologue of the Prime Minister.  She remembers the last line of the intro, and how it was such a stark contrast to the household she grew up in.  She didn’t believe a single word.  But as she listens to the voice over the PA system, sees the fathers hug their sons, the mothers their daughters, husbands and wives embrace, boyfriends kiss their girlfriends and a new touch thrown in this production, a boyfriend kissing his boyfriend – suddenly it’s not so farfetched. 

Never did she imagine in a million years that she’d ever be at a show in Boston, where he brother works for goodness sake.  Never did she ever imagine that she’d find her souldmate, and Mickey his (despite the current circumstances).  It’s uncanny really.  So as she listens to the last line of the opening, it’s no longer foreign.

_“If you look for it, I’ve got a sneaky feeling you’ll find that love actually is all around.”_

Her eyes widen, enamored, and this time around – she agrees with it.  Every word.

*Lights dim.*

_////_

“My, my, my, don’t you look ravishing,” Archie says as he approaches Mickey.  The production’s ended, and now it’s time for the long awaited Christmas party he’s been planning for weeks.  “Red looks good on you, Mrs. Claus,” he winks.  Mickey drops his head, wishing there was a hole he could stick his little head in.  He’s still in denial he’s even wearing this shit.

“Fuck off,” Mickey bites.  He needs a stiff drink asap.

Mandy slides next to him and poses as she smiles at her newfound pet queen.  “Whatcha think?” she says as she whirls around in her green sweater decorated with actual lights. 

Archie gasps dramatically as he does his signature chest grab.  He’s so proud.  “Even more ravishing than grumpelstiltkin here,” Archie jibes, earning a murderous glare from Mickey.  He ignores him and walks up to Mandy, extending his arm to her.  “Be my date?”

“Think Jim will mind?” she asks.  Mickey told her about Archie being Jim’s partner, or as Archie likes to put it – his kept boy.

“Of course not honey.  Tonight, I’m all yours.  Let’s leave this little grumpy thug all by his lonesome.”  Archie then smirks at Mickey who’s way past done at this point and ready to run for the hills.  “Well, that is until Mr. Claus emerges.”

Mickey feels himself sink into the floor as he watches Mandy waltz off with her new gay best friend, disappearing into the party crowd within the theater.  As much as he doesn’t want to be here however, he must admit Archie went all out.  It looks like Pier 1 Imports threw up in the place, with red, green and white decorations trimmed in gold.  There’s an open bar on the stage and more hors d’oeuvres than he can even fathom.  The music kind of sucks though, the same cheesy Christmas songs that get played ad nauseam and remade by every music artist in the business blaring through the PA system.

But all he needs right now is a drink from the bar, so he begins to maneuver his way through the crowd.  Once on the stage, he makes a b-line for the Jack Daniels, his old favorite.  He immediately pours himself a glass, grabs some type of puff pastry off of a tray and unceremoniously shoves it into his mouth.  He has no clue what he’s eating, but he thinks he tastes cheese, and maybe spinach.  He continues to chew almost wildly as he turns around.

He nearly chokes on the hors d’oeuvre when he’s met by a grinning Ian.

“Good stuff, huh?” Ian smiles as he moves in closer.  He’s sporting his winking Mr. Claus sweater and nearly loses it when he stares down at Mickey’s sweater.  “Archie?” he points.  Mickey quickly downs his drink and winces from the burn.

“How’d you guess?” Mickey asks, the Jack having a sudden calming effect.

“He got me mine,” Ian laughs.  “Didn’t know he also picked its perfect counterpart.”

“Look, I didn’t wanna wear this shit, alright?  I know it looks fucking stupid.”

Ian shakes his head before looking around at the people surrounding him.  “Everyone looks fucking stupid if you haven’t noticed,” Ian offers.  “Davis has on a sweater of Santa taking a dump for Pete’s sake.  Eli has on one of RuPaul in an Elf costume that says ‘Merry Christmas Bitches!’ on it.”  Mickey would much rather have on the sweater of Santa on the crapper – so much more his style.

“Still think I look like an idiot,” Mickey counters, tugging on the bottom of the sweater.

“I think you look handsome,” Ian lets slip.  He looks away from Mickey briefly and runs his hand through his hair.  He blushes.  “Sorry,” he says as he pours himself a drink.  “I’ve already had a few drinks.”

“Thanks,” Mickey offers.  His response catches Ian off guard, his eyes widening.  Ian was bracing for a ‘fuck off,’ or ‘whatever.’  Needing more alcohol for the moment, Mickey then uses his thieving skills and quickly swipes one of the bottles of Jack Daniels off of the table and begins to maneuver his way back through the crowd.

“Where you headed with that entire bottle?” Ian asks.

“To get away from all these people and go someplace more private where I can get shitfaced,” Mickey answers.

“And where’s that?”

“Lighting booth, twelve o’clock,” Mickey points upwards.  He turns to continue to his destination, but is suddenly caught off guard by Ian’s hand grabbing his wrist.  Instinctively, he yanks his hand out of his grip and immediately regrets it when he turns back around to see his face fall.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to…I…uh…” Ian stumbles over his words.  “I was just gonna ask if I could join you.  Never been up there in all my time here.  Besides, I’d like to get away from all these people too, but if it’s too awkward – “

“Shut up and follow me,” Mickey cuts him off.  Ian’s somewhat taken aback, but he follows him without further word.  Mickey’s also taken aback by the fact he was comfortable enough to even bring him.

It was one thing being in the space with Archie, but having Ian in there with him makes something shift.  They’re forced to be somewhat close, given the space isn’t huge, but somehow Mickey feels it wouldn’t be a bad thing if they got closer.  He downs another shot of his stolen Jack Daniels before walking to the end of the booth and props his forearms on the edge as he looks down into the crowd of people.  He chuckles as he takes in the ridiculous sight of everyone in their horrendous sweaters.

“Come over here,” he says to Ian, motioning for him to stand next to him.  Ian stands from the bench he was sitting on and plants himself next to Mickey.  He snorts as he looks down, because he bets if anyone were to look up this way at them, they’d probably think him and Mickey look silly with their matching Mr. and Mrs. Claus sweaters.  But even if that were the case, Ian doesn’t think they look silly at all.  In fact, he thinks to himself that they look just right.  Like they fit – _together_.

Ian’s quickly jolted out of his thoughts when Mickey elbows him gently.  Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it isn’t, but Ian feels something rather kinetic take place from the contact.  Mickey laughs and points down at Archie and Mandy who are still inseparable, their arms hooked and seemingly holding each other steady.  He sees Sophia say something to Mandy, who tries to high five her, but fails miserably, Archie laughing hysterically as he stabilizes her. 

“Looks like they’ve visited the bar a few times,” Ian laughs.  He stands and sways a bit, realizing he too has probably had more than a few.  “Whoa, look who’s talking.  Think I’ll sit now.”  He makes his way to the bench and sits back down.  Mickey turns and frowns at him.

“Lightweight,” he picks as he walks over and nearly trips over his own two feet.  He guesses he’s almost drunk too.  He catches himself and slides next to Ian, leaning his head back against the wall as he laughs at his own comment which now applies to himself.

“Your sister seems cool,” Ian says as he also leans his head back against the wall.

Mickey slowly turns his head, still pressed into the wall so he’s now facing Ian.  “She’s evil,” Mickey snorts.

“How so?”

“Because she’s fucking Mandy Milkovich.  What else is there to say?” Mickey offers as turns his head back straight and closes his eyes.  “Gotta be careful with that one, she’ll emasculate you.  Bitch used to tease me about being the same height as her until after high school.”

Ian laughs as he thinks of his siblings and how they would poke fun at him about different things.  Suddenly he misses them, and it hurts that he had to FedEx their gifts and will only get to see them via Skype on Christmas morning.  “You know, my siblings used to tease me about things,” Ian says as he reminisces about his summers in Canaryville.  “They used to poke fun at the bowl haircuts my dad’s wife used to give me, point out my massive amount of freckles and the different imperfections I have.”

“Like the birthmark in the shape of Florida on the inside of your thigh?” Mickey lets slip.  He chuckles about it, but quickly stops when he notices Ian’s grown quiet.  He isn’t supposed to know that.  He opens his eyes and turns slowly to face Ian who’s staring intently at him, a look that’s a mixture of awe and bewilderment on his face. 

“No one knows about that,” Ian finally says surprised, “not even previous guys I’ve dated.  They’ve never noticed it.  How’d you – “

“Dunno,” Mickey cuts him off, “must be the alcohol talking.  Just forget about it.”

“I don’t think it was,” Ian responds, his voice an octave lower.  He still has yet to peel his eyes off of the stage tech.

“Oh boy,” Mickey breathes out as he focuses his eyes above him.  He takes what he sees as a sign that it’s about time and he has no choice. 

Ian feels his heart nearly stop when he puts two and two together.  He inhales and exhales, inhales and exhales, deciding to focus his eyes above him as well.  He smiles as he looks up for a few moments, seeing what Mickey’s obviously seeing, before refocusing his eyes back on the tech who’s now sitting upright, already staring at him again and inching closer.  Ian gets the hint.

“You dreaming about me or something?” Ian asks, Mickey’s face now inches from his.

“Have been since I was fourteen,” Mickey responds.  And this time, he initiates the kiss.

Ian inwardly thanks Archie for his insurance plan as they sit under a strategically placed sprig of mistletoe with their lips connected and their identities finally known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I've dragged this along long enough, and it was time to take off the veil. I swear, if Ian didn't find out in this chapter, I'd opt to say he's a bit dense lol (or I just love to torture people). Deep down, he knew, but Mickey's little reveal at the end solidified it - it was his proof. I must say though, my favorite scenes to write in this chapter, were the Mickey and Mandy ones. Nothing like some Milkovich sibling bonding! I won't say much more, except I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. Now it's time to see how everything plays out between the two now that they know about each other. :)))


	8. Unfinished Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s too bad the dreams don’t give you all the details of the person you’ll be with – that’s where the devil is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains flash backs, and takes a look more into Ian and Mickey. Hope it makes sense! This is kind of a filler chapter?? Although there's a nice "treat" in there for you all. ;)

_Mickey, 13._

_“There he is!  Fuckin’ get him!”_

_Yet another shrill yell from Terry’s mouth, and just like that, Mickey and his brothers follow the clarion call.  The four sons charge at a spitting image of at least two of them, fists balled and lips peeled back over their teeth, just like father taught them.  Word on the street was that their cousin, Donnie, had a rather unique soulmate, at least by Milkovich standards.  A guy._

_Terry was having none of that._

_He’d told his sons earlier upon hearing the news that dream differentia didn’t mean shit – that Milkoviches were all built to be straight and not bent at the spine, like faggots.  Fuck fate.  Despite not yet having dreams himself, a thirteen year old Mickey cringed at the sound of his father’s words._

_He’d always admired his cousin and never questioned what it meant when he saw his hand linger too long on his “friend” Brad’s hand._

_“I don’t understand why you’re still standin’,” Terry growls as he presses Donnie’s back into the brick wall of the alley he fled to.  One glimpse of five angry Milkoviches charging at him, and his feet didn’t need to be prompted to take off.  He ran for his life.  “But since my brother is too much of a pussy to beat you straight, we’ll do him this favor, spare him the embarrassment.”_

_Mickey doesn’t remember much after the brutal beating.  He figures he started blocking out the images halfway through, focusing only on fist-to-face contact, boot-to-ribs timing.  He had to be exacting.  Instruction-like._

_Punch.  Kick.  Repeat._

_He doesn’t remember the words Donnie cried out, doesn’t remember how much blood stained the pavement.  But he does remember his father’s face, the anger, the resentment – the warning._

_It was as clear as day._

////

It’s a match made in heaven – this is the thing dreams were truly made of. 

“Where the fuck you been all my life?” 

An arm curls around his waist for both comfort and drunken stability, and he feels himself feeling _exactly_ the same.  “I’ve been rrriiiight here, in fuckin’ bean town, all my life love!” Archie laughs into Mandy’s ear as they make their way towards the steps that lead to one of the lighting booths.   The two had hit it off entirely too well throughout the night, Mandy declaring herself as his new BFF and carrier of his future babies.  Archie throws his arm around her waist as they prepare to hike up the steps of Poon Hill, because really, they’re both so drunk the stairs are just that daunting.  “You ready mah lil’ Liza?”

“Stop callin’ me that,” Mandy says through a chuckle.

“It’s just you have that beautiful, ebony black hair like her and an amazing bone structure, ya know, but pre _Cabaret_ and more Flora in _The Red Menace_ ,” he rambles as they conquer the first step.  Mandy lets out a loud laugh, nearly losing her footing.

“You’re sooooo gay,” she cackles as she steadies herself.

“Yeah well,” Archie continues to babble, “Liza clearly doesn’t have your beautiful blue eyes though.  Ugh, must be a Milkovich thing, because if I must say so myself, your brother ain’t half bad either.”

“Um, gross.”

“And don’t you dare tell him I fucking said that!” Archie points as they continue to stumble slowly up the steps.  “That boy will never let me hear the end of it.”

Finally regaining her footing, Mandy turns and shoots Archie a suspicious glance.  “Why’re we goin’ up here again?” she asks, curious.  “Party’s back in the auditorium.”

“For science,” Archie responds, his voice a few octaves lower this time.  The two nearly fall backwards down the steps as they continue to make their way up the darkened corridor, tripping over each other from Archie suddenly stopping both of them.  He places his hand on the railing and crouches like a tiger as he listens.  He looks ridiculous and Mandy can’t help but laugh.  _“Shhhhhh!”_ he shushes Mandy as he turns his ear towards the top of the steps.

Throwing her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing, Mandy obeys and tries her best to stifle the noises escaping her mouth.  The two grow quiet as they both listen for – something.  For what, Mandy hasn’t the slightest clue, but clearly, Archie knows exactly what he’s listening for.  The sound of two guys laughing briefly carries through the stairwell, nearly sending Archie into a frenzy.  He grabs Mandy by her hand and pulls her like a ragdoll as he bolts up the remainder of the steps.

“C’mon!” he whispers loudly.

They finally make it to the top, and the sight before them is a rather sobering one.  Archie lets out an obnoxious gasp as he takes in the sight of Ian and Mickey in a tangled heap on the floor, fully clothed, but basically doing some very, un-naked fucking.   Mickey’s on his back, hands twisted in Ian’s hair as he groans into his mouth each time the actor grinds into him.

“Holy shit!  Mickey?!” Mandy yelps as she finally sees the two going at it.  She startles them, mainly Mickey who quickly pushes Ian off of him and shoots to his feet in almost one swift motion.  Clearly in a panic, he starts to push past Ian, who instinctively grabs him by his hand, stopping him.

“It’s ok Mick, it’s just Archie and Mandy,” Ian says, trying to calm Mickey who’s seemingly growing more agitated by the second. 

Mandy’s face softens – she knows this look all too well.  Being a Milkovich herself, she knows they don’t deal well with the element of surprise, especially when it feels threatening to them.  Her brother’s secret is a sensitive one, not known by many but hated by more than enough, and she knows how he guards it.  With his very life.  Letting people in to catch a glimpse of this part of him was never an option.  Even though she knew this about him almost her entire life, she’s never actually seen it.  Ian would be the only exception at this point.

“Hey,” she says softly.  Suddenly her drunkenness evaporates, dissolved by the near panic on her brother’s face.  Mickey hears her voice, but he refuses to look at her.  His eyes are fixed on the door – he needs his escape.  Mandy’s chest clenches when she sees his jaw tighten and his free hand reflexively curl into a fist. 

“Mick,” Ian says softly as he steps in closer.

“He’s cool,” Mandy interjects, “just, give him a minute.”  She then walks up beside Mickey, and says the only thing she knows may ease his tension.  “Mickey it’s okay, we’re not fucking dad.”

////

_Mickey, 15._

_Dreams shouldn’t cost a thing.  Falling is supposed to be free.  But after a year of having these dreams, he somehow he feels likes he owes something.  He’s not even sure he’ll ever figure out what, but Mickey’s certain about one thing – he’s fucking scared.  If Terry finds out he’s been dreaming about who’s obviously a guy, he’s a dead man.  Life ended at fifteen._

_So maybe he owes his life._

_He resorts to lying during kitchen table time with his father and brothers while they drink Old Style, bragging about the hot girls they were probably dreaming about.  Iggy always asks him, “So what’s yours like?” and Mickey always responds, “She’s got freckles,” as he forces a grin knowing deep down it’s not a girl._

_Probably never will be._

_“Hmm, I’ve always had a thing for freckles, especially on gingers,” Terry slurs into his beer at the mention of freckles.  Mickey feels his stomach flip and his skin tighten over his muscles._

_His father also makes it a habit to snarl and bite out, “None of you boys are dreamin’ about dick are ya?”  His brothers are always in stitches over it as they quickly clear their names by making fag-bashing jokes.  Mickey pretends he doesn’t hear his father or them.  Pretends he doesn’t see his father shoot him a suspicious glance whenever he makes the snide comment._

_But he hears and sees, every single time._

////

Mickey looks at Mandy painstakingly slow from his periphery.  He still says nothing, before casting his eyes on Archie, who looks as if he’s struggling with finding the right words to say.  _Internal forehead slap._ He should be over this shit by now.  But that’s the thing.  It takes time to get over something you’ve been buried under for so long.  It takes some serious arm strength and digging up, up, up until you’re _out_.  Literally.

Archie chuckles awkwardly as he makes a _‘what-the-fuck-just-happened’_ face at Mandy.  She nonchalantly shrugs one of her shoulders as she smirks at him, letting him know this is clearly nothing new – this is what he does.

Mickey rubs the pads off his fingers over his eyes before finally turning to fully face Archie and Mandy.  “So you like sneakin’ up on people, huh?” Mickey says, finally breaking the ice.  There’s a whoosh of relief through the booth at the sound of his voice, and suddenly everyone’s shoulders lower just a little and tensions uncoil. 

“For a minute there I thought you were gonna bolt,” Archie grins before throwing his hands on his hips.  “And we weren’t sneaking, we were, I guess you could say, validating.”

“Yeah, science shit,” Mandy chimes in, drunk again, earning a pointed brow from Mickey.

Archie then shoots his head to an all too satisfied Ian, and winks before looking at his strategically placed mistletoe.  “And clearly, my experiment worked.”

“How’d you even know to put that in here?” Ian asks, curious.  Although – they didn’t need it, not really.

“It doesn’t take long to realize that Mickey here, is a creature of habit,” Archie says proudly, “and a perpetual grump.  And grumps like to go back to the dark corners that they’re used to when they wanna be party poopers.  Their caves.  This is Mickey’s cave.  Such a peculiar species, grumps.”

“Ay, grump on these,” Mickey barks out as he unabashedly grabs his nuts.

Archie rolls his eyes deeply, amused.  “C’mon Mickey, you’re grabbing your nuts while wearing a winking Mrs. Claus sweater.  How ineffective.”   He then looks over towards Ian and wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.  “And besides, that’s _his_ job,” he quips.  Mandy lets out a huge snort in unison with Ian, nearly falling over.

“Oh, you think that’s funny, huh?” Mickey says as he looks at Ian, no real anger in his voice.  “Ok, keep it up.”  There’s an endearing look spreading across Mickey’s face.  It’s a 180 from the look reminiscent of a fearful child that settled in the subtle lines of his face just minutes ago.

“Shut me up then,” Ian says suggestively as he looks him up and down.  Mandy lets out a gagging noise while Archie looks on like a proud father.

“We’re leaving now,” Mickey responds as he turns to exit the lighting booth, Ian close on his heels.

“Wait, you’re leaving me?!” Mandy squawks as she watches her brother leave.  “You know I don’t know my way around this stupid city!”

“I know where he lives,” Archie interjects, “I can take you, maybe trash his place while I’m there.”

“See, there you go, _Archibald_ will take you.  You’ve a key to my place,” Mickey says as he turns around to face her.  Archie’s eyes turn to saucers as the sound of his full name.  “And if you trash my place, I trash your face,” he warns.

“How’d you – “

“I have my ways too ya know,” Mickey cuts Archie off in his stupor.  

“You know what Mickey?  I’m gonna give you a pass on this one, because what’s happening here is too important,” Archie says as he waves a hand unfazed, while inwardly screaming at his grandfather’s name.

“So take your new bestie there and let yourself in,” Mickey says to Mandy as he nods his head in Archie’s direction who’s now making his eyebrows dance excitedly at what’s obviously happening.  He then shoots Ian a look that says it all.

“My beautiful sons,” Archie smiles as he clasps his hands together, “I’m so proud.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Mickey answers just as him and Ian begin to make their way down the steps.  Once they reach the bottom, he turns and looks up at his sister and Archie at the top of the landing.  “And for the record Archie,” Mickey calls up to him, “your eyebrow game could use some work!”  A word from the master himself.

Archie finds himself amused as he watches Ian and Mickey disappear around the bend.  He looks over at Mandy, who’s fiddling with some buttons on one of the control panels.  She looks at him with a pleasantly surprised look on her face.  “Were we just ditched?” she asks.  “The hell just happened?”

“Fate my dear,” Archie says as he swings his arm around Mandy’s shoulder, “fate.”

////

_Ian, 16._

_He doesn’t feel anything afterwards.  He thought he would.  Honestly, he’s beginning to believe he’s not capable._

_Ian wipes the sweat off of his forehead and feels disgusting.  The handprints left in the hips of ‘what’s his face’, or ‘I forgot his name’ are far from marks of pride, the artistic indications that you’ve just buried yourself in someone.  They just look – lonely.  A single handprint on the left, one on the right.  Crimson and bright.  He didn’t move them not once off of…_

_Ralph.  That’s his name._

_Other than the calculated and effective thrusts of his own hips, Ian was stoic.  Almost aloof from the act itself._

_“Was it good for you?” Ralph asks, still breathless and coming down.  Ian cringes.  He hates when the fuck of the week asks him if it was ‘good’ for him.  “It was good for me,” he says, getting the hint from Ian’s silence.  Clearly, that word is subjective.  Good._

_Ian doesn’t know what that is.  For him, it’s just a purpose served.  He serves them up frequently when he’s upset – needing something to cling to, someone to bury his fingers into while pressing his frustrations deep into flesh._

_He looks at Ralph, and feels a sudden twinge of guilt for leading him on.  He wants nothing beyond this – knows Ralph does.  “It was,” Ian trails off as his thoughts go flat, “fun.”  He pulls on his shirt and begins to make his way out from under the bleachers.  He isn’t surprised at the sound of scuffling feet behind him._

_“They say sex is insane when it happens with the one,” Ralph says awkwardly as he catches up to Ian, pants barely pulled all the way up.  He’s trying to compensate for feeling like maybe he wasn’t satisfying enough._

_The one.  Ian’s dreams started months ago, the visions of his soulmate still just a single dot in a pointillism painting.  Since that night of onset, he’s become somewhat unmanageable; his mind in and out, on and off.  Something wasn’t right, and REM just fucked up his headspace even more.  He shakes the feeling of his mind getting away from him and looks at Ralph.  It’s definitely not him._

_Don’t get him wrong, sex for Ian is enjoyable, but a majority of the time, far from fulfilling._

_And there’s no thin line._

_“Let’s hope one of us gets to experience it,” Ian says as he looks straight ahead again, his mind already miles ahead of him._

////

Ian looks at Mickey as his back is pressed harder into his front door.  Mickey’s chest is flush against his, no space allowed between them, his lips ghosting playfully over his after a five minute war with their tongues.  They have yet to get inside.  Ian studies his face, connects the remaining dots and smiles. 

He’s no Seurat or Signac, but a work of art nonetheless.  _Almost perfect._

They barely make it inside Ian’s apartment.  They’re stumbling, pulling, breathing heavy and reaching for something to grab onto as their clothes spin.  A stack of books on a small table gets knocked over in the process.  Ian feels flesh brush briefly across his fingertips as he helps Mickey remove his sweater.  It makes him shudder.

Returning the favor, Mickey reaches out and grabs two fistfuls of red wool and yanks until the hideous thing is off, because he should be seeing Ian by now.  Seeing those freckles.  He scans his eyes quickly over his bare chest and collarbone, fights back the urge to sink his teeth right _there_ where those freckles are sprayed delicately above and beneath the bone.  Those are his dots – _his_.

Ian smirks and moves in quickly, wasting no time grabbing at Mickey’s belt buckle.  His hands are almost frantic as he loosens it.  But the pace slows down suddenly as he looks up into Mickey’s face, his smirk muted by a brush of uncertainty across his lips.  “I’ll slow down,” he breathes out.

“Don’t,” Mickey responds right before he dips his head by Ian’s collarbone and runs his tongue slowly across the top.  _Fuck it._   He bites.  Ian moans out his approval, doesn’t care if it leaves a mark.  He hopes he’ll leave more, spell out his name across the flesh beneath his neck in teeth marks and passion. 

He’s Mickey’s now anyway.

He finally has his belt buckle and pants zipper undone and begins to tug them down.  Eager to quickly explore, Ian sticks one hand into his boxers and gives Mickey’s already hard cock a squeeze, gently flicks his thumb across the top.  It doesn’t take much for a reaction because every inch of them is _alive_.  The stage tech quivers and bites down harder, this time at the nape of Ian’s neck. 

“Bedroom,” Ian says lowly into Mickey’s hair as he continues to lick, suck and bite – just the way he’s supposed to.

“Fuck the bedroom,” Mickey breathes out, coming up for air for just a second, before dipping his head to the other side of Ian’s neck to leave his marks there too. 

A quick pain travels through Ian’s neck from Mickey getting a bit too excited.  But he doesn’t mind.  He welcomes the ache.  Ian places his hand underneath Mickey’s chin and maneuvers his face until he’s staring at him directly in the eyes.  It’s nearly blinding.  Going on instinct, he leans in and kisses Mickey slowly – very slowly.  He breaks the kiss after a few moments and leads them to the couch, because fuck the bedroom, but there’s no way they’re about to do this on the wooden floor.

Beds give, floor boards creak but the couch will do and makes way for angles a mattress and wood floors would never allow.

By the time they get there, they’re both fully naked.  Mickey stepped out of his pants and boxers before they moved, while Ian doesn’t know where or how his went.  He could care less because Mickey looks too beguiling in this light to see beyond the way it bathes his skin.  Ian removes his hands from around Mickey’s waist, stops kissing him for just a second – only a second – breaking their connection.  It’s a second too long.  Mickey grabs his hands, pulls him down with him, sending them both crashing onto the sofa.

“Don’t fucking do that,” Mickey huffs.

“Do what?” Ian asks confused, his words nearly obscured from the way Mickey now has his bottom lip trapped between his teeth.

Using the pads of his fingers, Mickey then traces Ian’s spine all the way to the base, before cupping his ass aggressively.  He squeezes then pulls until the actor’s pelvis is nearly fused to his.  “Stop touching me,” Mickey finally responds.

Ian smiles into his kiss before slipping his hands underneath the middle of Mickey’s back to pull them close, close, too close – until they can’t tell where one’s skin ends and the other begins.  Until they’re _one_.  “I have to get a few things,” Ian finally says into Mickey’s mouth.

“No.”

“I won’t be long,” Ian counters as he breaks them apart and stands.  He sees the protests settling in Mickey’s pale features as he back away slowly.

“Hurry the fuck up,” Mickey orders.  Ian turns around and makes his way to the bathroom, Mickey thoroughly enjoying the view.

Once in the bathroom, Ian opens his medicine cabinet to grab lube and not one, but three condoms.  One probably won’t do, so a trinity is needed.  He scans his eyes quickly over the remaining contents before closing the cabinet and pauses.  _Mood stabilizers.  Benzodiazepines.  Antidepressants.  Antipsychotics…_

Ian quickly shuts the cabinet and closes his eyes.  He really needs to keep his condoms and lube somewhere else – somewhere that’s not a constant reminder that he’s one missed pill away from becoming a mess again.  After a few moments, he opens his eyes, looks at himself in the mirror and feels a sudden rush of insecurity flood into his chest.  _Do not think about this now._ He takes a deep breath and ignores the fact that he’s about to show Mickey one side of him, while concealing the other.  At least for now.

“Took you long enough,” Mickey barks when he finally returns.  Ian nearly drops the shit in his hands when he casts his eyes upon the stage tech, laid back into the couch, legs propped up and spread while he slowly strokes his very hard cock.  “The fuck you still standin’ there for?”

Getting the hint, Ian finally makes his way over and hovers himself over Mickey.  They both freeze for a few seconds, the unknown things about them lingering behind their eyes as they stare.  Mickey’s troubled youth.  Ian’s turbulent mind.  But none of it matters in this moment, and starts to fade when Mickey props himself up and begins to force them to switch positions until Ian is on his back.  He slowly strokes the actor’s cock as he kisses down his chest slowly.  When he gets to his pelvis, he nips, causing Ian’s hips to buck.  If he missed the memo before, it should be apparent by now that Mickey’s keen on biting.

He continues to nibble and suck at freckled flesh, creating a trail of marks down Ian’s inner thigh until he reaches the base of his dick.  He wastes no time dragging his tongue, no teeth this time, up his shaft until his lips are over the head.  Mickey’s never done _this_.  He’s wanted to, but never executed.  There was always too much hesitation, too much pride – too much Terry in the back of his head making him feel like less of a man for wanting to do it.  But fuck it.

He’s Ian’s now anyway.

He surprises himself when he sucks down, almost all the way down.  Relaxing his throat, he takes in as much of Ian as possible, because goodness there’s a lot of him, before pulling slowly back up to the top.  Ian’s hands gently pulling his hair is more than enough motivation.  He swirls his tongue around the head before dipping back down, hollowing his cheeks and using his right hand to guide him up, down, up.  Ian bucks his hips and lets out a moan.

“Oh my God,” Ian breathes out as he tightens his grip in black strands of hair.

There’s nothing Mickey hates more than unfinished business.  Given the way they ended things the first time they hooked up, he was more than determined to finish what they’d started.  He speeds up, nearly gags when he goes too deep, but regains himself.  He takes his chances and glances up at Ian’s face through his dark lashes.  He’s completely lost, his head thrown back, mouth slightly ajar and his eyes screwed shut.  Mickey feels himself harden even more at the sight of sweat gathering around his neck and down his chest.

He stops sucking with a loud pop and props himself up.  “Sit up,” he says to Ian, who does so almost immediately.  “No, like this,” Mickey says as he maneuvers Ian’s legs until his feet are on the floor and his back is against the couch pillows.  Ian smirks when he realizes what Mickey’s about to do.

Wasting no more time, Mickey grabs the lube and tosses one condom next to them on the couch.  He pops open the bottle, but before he can do anything, Ian stops him.  “Let me,” he says, taking the lube out of his hands. 

Ian squeezes a generous amount onto two fingers as Mickey waits straddling on his knees.  He rests his thighs on Ian’s, places his hands on either side of his head as he grips the back of the couch for balance.  He feels a wave course through his entire body when Ian plunges two fingers into him, moving them slowly in and out.  He scissors between every few thrusts, causing Mickey to shiver slightly.  When he feels as if he’s prepped enough, Ian reaches for the condom and slips it on before looking up at Mickey, who’s raised himself in anticipation.  He scoots up more on the couch for a better angle.

“Sit,” Ian says huskily.  Mickey does so. 

He’s bottomed only a few times in his life, a few meaning two times with Benji back home.  And that was years ago.  Mickey’s always liked the idea of bottoming, but never fully trusted the handful of guys he’d slept with to let them take the reins.  After doing it twice with Benji, he just couldn’t anymore.  But with Ian – he’s more than willing.  And once he’s fully seated, he knows he’s made the right decision.  He’s never felt so full – complete.  It’s even slightly painful, but Ian takes his time and loosens him up as he grips the small of his back and assists in moving him up and down at a dawdling pace.

A sudden heat rises between the both of them, their skin burning small fires all over.  Ian tightens his grip around Mickey’s waist, presses the pads of his fingers into his flesh deep, so deep he knows they’ll leave bruises.  Mickey picks up his pace, feeling more adjusted and confident, and wraps one of his arms around Ian’s neck while leaving the other gripping the back of the couch.  Their faces are less than an inch apart, hot breath prickling the tips of their lips and noses. 

Ian leans in closer as their pace quickens and runs his tongue slowly across Mickey’s bottom lip before sucking it into his mouth.  Mickey stutters in his movements for a second, but steadies himself and runs his hand that was gripping the couch through red hair, tugs at it slightly.  He feels something explode inside of him when Ian changes his angle and hits him in his sweet spot.  _Right.  There._

“Oh fuck!” Mickey screams out before he can even think to contain himself.  He knows he sounds embarrassing right now, but he could care less, the way Ian is rolling his hips up as he powers down meeting each thrust enough to make him lose his shit.

“Found it,” Ian says breathily into Mickey’s neck.

“Oh _shhhiiiiit_ ,” Mickey manages to squeeze out between moans.  He grips the back of Ian’s neck with both hands as he continues to ride him, and looks into his eyes.  He’s close, so close.  He can feel something catastrophic about to take place beneath his hips as his stomach tightens.  He feels his release will be that serious.  A small death.  He begins to scratch at the nape of Ian’s neck, and out of nowhere asks, “What’d you find, huh?”

Ian grunts when he feels Mickey fully seat himself and roll his hips back and forth, back and forth.  He feels his thighs tighten as his orgasm approaches.  He begins placing small bites across Mickey’s jaw line until he reaches his ear and whispers, “You.”

Mickey comes at that point and loses his life momentarily.  He temporarily goes blind as he clenches around Ian and his thighs shake.  He bites into Ian’s shoulder as he climaxes, this time drawing blood.  White ribbons decorate the actor’s chest and abs as he picks up the pace and pounds pointedly into Mickey through his own orgasm that hits him with a crash.

“ _Fuck_ , you feel so good,” Ian moans into Mickey’s neck as he rides out his orgasm.  “So so good.”  He then plops his head into the back of the couch as he steadies his breathing.

Mickey smiles with his face still buried in Ian’s shoulder.  “You feel even better,” he says as he lifts his head and meets Ian’s gaze.  He cages his head in with both hands and leans in slowly to kiss him.  The kiss is slow and lazy, the both of them stopping ever so often as they just rest their lips on one another’s.  “I like you inside me,” Mickey whispers into Ian’s mouth, not wanting to lift off.

“I like being inside you,” Ian responds as he rubs his hands up and down Mickey’s spine.

They give each other a fair amount of time to come down, those small fires in their skin reducing slowly, but far from going out completely.  There are embers lingering just beneath the surface, anything slightly flammable capable of restarting the fire.

And both Ian and Mickey are currently made of kerosene, ready to burn in each other’s blazes. 

They both fall into the couch and face each other.  One of Ian’s legs rests between Mickey’s thighs as he studies the marks he left on his neck and collarbone.  “Shit, sorry man,” Mickey says apologetically as he looks at how bad he marked him up.

Ian laughs and runs his own hand down the side of his neck.  “I don’t mind,” he offers, “they’ll go away.”  His green eyes then become more serious as they scan every inch of Mickey’s face.  “I just don’t want you to.”

“What?  Go away?” Mickey asks somewhat incredulous.  Not trying to figure out where this is coming from, he waves Ian off and grins.  “Fuck man, I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

Ian feels a twinge of embarrassment for saying that, but takes comfort in the way Mickey’s hand grips his waist and squeezes.  “So how do you feel?” he asks.  It’s a question he wouldn’t normally throw out there, but there’s an urge that makes him ask.

Mickey’s eyes then grow somewhat serious as they land on Ian’s mouth.  He instinctively takes his thumb and brushes it slowly across his lips.  To think he was so afraid to give in to this suddenly seems ridiculous.  That fear had _Terry_ written all over it.  It’s not too often someone can experience a dream.  He breathes in deeply, exhales his childhood.

“Awake,” he whispers.

////

_Ian, 17._

_He knew something was wrong when he saw the smoke at the end of his cigarette grow hands.  It’s smoky, gray tendrils reached out and began to choke him.  Ian immediately threw down his cigarette and stomped it out.  He went cold turkey after that._

_Initially he blamed the delusion on the lack of sleep he was getting.  Blamed it on stress at school.  Blamed not being able to sleep with someone who wasn’t old enough to be his father and married.  He even blamed the dreams._

_But it wasn’t until he looked in the mirror one day after being up for 24 hours, his eyes wild and wide and his hands still covered in blue paint after deciding to redecorate the kitchen, that it hit him.  It wasn’t until he saw remnants of his mother etched between the tired lines on his face, that he blamed the real culprit – genetics.  But he still couldn’t bring himself to say it.  Clayton found him sitting in the bathtub that day, scribbling in a notebook and talking at rapid speeds, his speech broken and almost impossible to understand._

_He called Fiona immediately.  Ian couldn’t make out most of what he was saying due to the buzzing in his head, but he did hear one thing his father said while on the phone.  “He’s been acting just like Monica when she’s off her meds,” Clayton said lowly into the phone.  “He needs a doctor Fiona.”_

_It doesn’t take long for the Psychiatrist to confirm what’s wrong with Ian._

_Bipolar._

////

A loud buzzing jolts him out of his sleep.  He rubs his eyes and looks down at the body pressed flush into his, creating a delicate spoon of naked flesh.  It’s Mickey, fast asleep, his back lined against his chest and his dark hair tickling Ian’s nose.  The faint smell of something resembling vanilla with a subtle hint of smoke travels up his nostrils as he sniffs.

The buzzing continues.  It’s Ian’s phone which means its 7am – time to take his pills.

He lets out an exasperated breath as he looks back down at Mickey.  Ian doesn’t want to move from this position, but he knows he has to.  Getting up very slowly, he eases his arm from underneath Mickey’s head and swings his leg over him until he feels the cold floor beneath his foot.  The stage tech stirs slightly, causing Ian to freeze.  He however quickly goes back under.

Ian’s finally standing and makes his way to his bathroom.  He looks at himself in the mirror of his medicine cabinet, taking in the deep red, crescent shaped marks along his neck, shoulders and collarbone.  They’re mixed in with larger, more solid marks, apparently hickeys.  He rubs his fingers along the bruises and smiles.  He’s never wanted to own something so much.

He opens his cabinet after a few moments of bruise admiration, that feeling that creeps into his gut every time he has to take his meds rushing in, except it’s ten times worse.  Mickey’s just in his living room, so close to this part of him.  It’s not like seeing him at rehearsals where he can pretend he doesn’t have this illness, keeping this part of him right here in this medicine cabinet, even if temporarily.  Mickey’s in his space now.  He knows he’ll have to tell him.

He’s on a combination of four medications right now.  Two mood stabilizers he has to take every day, and two adjunctive medications for anxiety or depression he only has to take when needed.  He’s got a pretty good balance right now, but it’s always in the back of his mind that one day he’ll wake up, and find himself scribbling in a notebook again, or throwing his flat screen in the dumpster because a voice told him it would corrupt his mind.  Ian remembers doing that in college during a really bad time.  The television belonged to Wes.  Luckily for him, he’s a trust fund baby, and wasn’t too upset about it, just worried and somewhat freaked out.

Ian vowed then to never go off of his meds ever again simply because he ‘felt like it’.

Grabbing the glass he keeps to take his medication from the side of the sink, Ian quickly fills it with water and downs his two pills.  He closes his medicine cabinet, and nearly drops the glass when he sees Mickey’s reflection appear behind him.  “Shit!  You scared me,” Ian gasps as he puts his glass down.

“Sorry, gotta take a piss,” he responds as he looks at Ian with a hint of suspicion in his eyes.  “Felt you weren’t behind me when I woke up too.  You alright?”

Ian shakes his head.  “Yeah, fine,” he answers quickly as Mickey makes his way over to the toilet to relieve himself.

“What’d you just take?” Mickey asks.  Ian hesitates, says the first thing that pops into his head.

“Aspirin,” he lies.  “Got a headache.”

“Worn out, huh?” Mickey says as he flushes.  He washes his hands as she stands next to Ian, making it no secret that he’s checking out his naked body.  “You think you can handle round two in a bit?” he asks, grinning right before he squeezes Ian’s ass.  “This time in the bedroom.”

“I’m always ready for round two,” Ian says confidently, despite not feeling that way.  “Meet you in my bedroom in a few minutes.  Gotta relieve myself too.” 

He watches as Mickey walks towards his bedroom before dipping back into his bathroom.  He wants to slap himself, and he would if it weren’t for his shaky hands.  _It’ll pass, it’ll pass._ He goes over to his toilet after a minute and flushes fictitiously.  He feels guilty for not just coming out and telling him the truth.  Mickey is, after all his soulmate.  It’s too bad the dreams don’t give you all the details of the person you’ll be with – that’s where the devil is.

He should’ve told him right away.

This time, Ian blames having always been secretive, sometimes aloof.

////

_Ian, 17._

_"It was psychosis.”_

_As he now sits in the Psychiatrists office, Ian can’t even bring himself to hear what she’s saying.  He should’ve kept the cigarette story to himself.  Reluctant to accept anything, he keeps his eyes focused on the carpet, refuses to look at Clayton on his right and Fiona on his left.  His leg has a mind of its own, doing the ‘up-down’ dance as he grips the fabric of his jeans.  What the fuck kind of name is Pinky Dagarwal anyway?  Clearly, this lady doesn’t know what she’s talking about._

_“I wanna go home now,” Ian says, agitated._

_“Ian, we have to hear what the doctor – “_

_“Fuck the doctor!  Fuck you!” he cuts Fiona off, lashing out.  He’s standing up now, pacing, pacing.  He can’t get himself to stop, doesn’t think he ever will._

_Dr. Dagarwal looks over her glasses at Ian as he paces, writes something down.  “Ian, do you realize you’re severely manic right now?”  She continues to observe as he ignores her and continues his pacing.  Ian begins mumbling something about blue being the wrong color and how he should’ve used goldenrod.  Dr. Dagarwal nods her head and begins scribbling on a bunch of miniature prescription pads.  “Right,” she says as she tears one paper off and fills out another, “For now we’re going to start Ian on a cocktail of one benzodiazepine to bring his anxiety down, two mood stabilizers and an antipsychotic for the psychosis.  I’m also prescribing this anticonvulsant as a back-up measure if the mania gets really bad.”_

_She hands the scripts to Clayton, who takes them and stares down at them for a long time.  He looks up at the doctor, forces a smile.  “Thank you Dr. Dagarwal,” he says hesitantly._

_“We’ll do a follow-up on how his meds are working in two weeks,” she says as she stands.  “Of course you can bring him in earlier if needed.  In the meantime, watch his actions, make sure he doesn’t try to harm himself.”_

_When Ian gets home, he finds the utensil drawers locked, and the scissors on his desk in his room removed._

////

Mickey wakes up tangled in a mess of long limbs.  He glances over at Ian, sleeping heavily with his mouth slightly ajar.  After two more rounds of sex, Mickey’s not surprised at how hard he’s sleeping.  He watches as his eyelids dance back and forth – probably in the snares of REM.  Looking at the time on his phone, he realizes it’s close to noon, and Christmas day.  He already has three missed calls from Mandy and one from Iggy.

Moving slowly and carefully not to wake Ian, Mickey finally gets himself untangled and makes his way to the living room.  He figures while he’s asleep, he can go to his apartment to get showered and put on fresh clothes and also to give Mandy her gift.  He knows that’s why she was calling.  He grabs his phone after slipping on his clothes, and notices he has a voicemail.  He dials his password and hits play, only to hear his sister’s voice blaring through.

_“Merry Christmas fuckhead!  Where the hell are you?  Too busy getting ploughed by Ian, huh?  I want my fucking gift!  Answer your phone!”_

Typical Mandy.  Mickey smirks as he throws on his coat and prepares to leave.  He stops for a moment and wonders if he should leave Ian a note to let him know he’ll be back so it doesn’t look like he just bailed.  He decides against it, and leaves Ian’s apartment to head back to his.

////

“The fuck?!” Mickey yells when he opens his apartment door.

He’s welcomed by the _thumpa thumpa_ of “Gangnam Style” blaring from his television in his living room, and the eye-singing sight of Mandy _and_ Archie dancing their lives away.  They’re both moving in sync, doing the routine as their faces nearly split from the goofy grins they have one their faces.  Archie immediately notices the angry Milkovich and points as he continues to move to the music.

“There he is!” Archie yells as he elbows Mandy.  She looks at her brother, scowls and flips him the bird, before grinning and returning to dancing. 

Mickey shakes his head as he watches his sister – Mandy Milkovich – doing fucking Gangnam Style.  He must have walked into the Twilight Zone, because the Mandy he knows would never.  He then looks at an all too excited Archie, and suddenly it’s not such a shock.  The guy has a way of rubbing off on people.  However, needing his sanity, Mickey waltzes over to his television and shuts it off.

“Hey!” Mandy yells as she stops dancing and walks up to her brother.  She slams her fist into his arm, which he was expecting.  “The fuck you do that for?  You stay away all night and decide to come in here and be a killjoy?”

“My apartment,” Mickey huffs. 

“Our little party,” Archie interjects, turning the television back on.  The music begins to blast again, instantly sending the two back into a movement frenzy as they surround Mickey.  “Join us!” Archie hollers out.  He then places both of his hands behind his head and begins to playfully gyrate his hips behind Mickey to the music.  Mickey turns around and scoffs at the way Archie’s moving, raising his brows to the ceiling. 

“You look fucking ridiculous,” Mickey says as he backs up.

“And you look dick-whipped,” Archie counters, sticking out his tongue when Mickey fails to produce a quick comeback.  “Oh baby, you are!” he wails joyfully.  He begins to pump his hips harder, moving in closer to Mickey who’s now acting extra grumpy. 

“Got anymore of that twerk left in ya?” Mandy laughs in Mickey’s ear before joining Archie in gyrating.  Mickey spins around towards the brunette and glares at him dangerously.

“You fucking told her about that?!” Mickey screams. 

Archie shrugs.  “We were drunk as skunks last night, had ourselves a little slumber party,” he says.  The music video finally goes off, and Archie stops dancing.  “You know how things like that go.  You talk about virtually everything.”

“You know what Archie,” Mickey begins as he makes his way to his bedroom, “I can’t even with you right now.”  He makes his way into his bedroom and goes underneath his bed, pulling out a box in red wrapping paper.  Mandy’s eyes widen when she sees him make his way back into the living room with the box, already knowing it’s for her.  “Merry Christmas douchebag.”

Mandy smiles and looks excitedly at the box.  When she feels she’s smiling too much, she tries to scowl a bit, looks at her brother through her dark bangs.  “It better not suck,” she says as she begins to tear the paper off.  Her eyes grow large when she sees what it is, before narrowing them suspiciously.  “You steal this or something?”

“Ay, fuck you alright?” Mickey retorts.  “I’ll take that shit back, because no, I didn’t steal it.  I started saving for it before I left Chicago.”

Mandy’s eyes then soften before she lets out a squeal.  “A fucking iPad Mickey?!  And not some cheap knock-off, or last year’s version.  The new iPad!”  She then throws her arms around Mickey’s neck before pulling back and beaming at Archie.  “I got an iPad bitch!”

“Well well, he has a heart,” Archie picks.  “Good job big brother.  We had a bet – I bet you would get her some Kindle Fire knock-off, not even an iPad.”

“Fuck you too,” Mickey bites out, no real venom behind it. 

“So, uh…” Archie begins hesitantly, or hesitant according to the Archie scale of standard reactions.  “You and Ian huh?”

Mickey rolls his eyes knowing he’ll have to have this conversation with him sooner or later.  He scratches the bridge of his nose with his thumb as he side-eyes Archie.  “Yeah,” he finally says.

“Fucking finally!” Archie wails out, flailing his arms about.  “So?” he asks as he looks at Mickey expectantly. 

“So what?”

“What do you mean what?” Archie asks incredulously.  “So…how was the sex?!  I know it was good, God, just look at Ian, I mean – “

“Archie!” Mickey cuts him off.  He shakes his head embarrassed, his cheeks slowly getting red.  “Look, that’s none of your business, alright?  And why the hell are you still here anyway?  Shouldn’t you be with Jim by now?”

“So secretive,” Archie says as he scrunches up his nose.  “And don’t you worry ‘bout my man ok?  The old ball and chain will be just fine.  He’s probably just now coming down from a hangover from too much eggnog while he binge watches _It’s A Wonderful Life_ in his favorite silk robe.  Besides, he knows I’m here keeping _your_ sister company.  But it’s whatever.  I’m always in support of a good dicking.”

“Oh my – a good – what the fuck?” Mickey huffs out.

_“Dick-ing,”_ Archie says slowly as he enunciates the word.  “It’s when you get your insides ploughed properly babe, a cause I’ve always supported and will always be on the frontlines for, for any and every human being.”

Mickey groans, slightly mortified.  “I’m just, gonna leave that one alone,” he says as he throws up his hands.  “Don’t know why you assume I’m the one that takes it anyway.”

“Oh c’mon Mickey, who are you kidding?” Archie says as he rolls his eyes.  “Top or bottom, doesn’t matter.  I mean, even the straightest man would bend over willingly for Ian Gallagher.”  Mickey waves dismissively at Archie’s comment, despite the truth behind it.  “You know it’s true,” he continues as he grins devilishly.  “Ian’s not a sight for sore eyes for nothing.  I’m pretty sure he’s the same for a nice sore ass.”

Mandy nearly spits up the soda she’s drinking.  “Oh my God!” she laughs.  She tries to catch her breath in between laughs.

“You don’t know shit alright,” Mickey says with little to no conviction, all the while focusing on the slight soreness he’s currently experiencing in his derriere.

“I know enough,” Archie says as he makes his eyebrows dance.  “Anywho, speaking of Ian, where is he?”

“Still asleep at his place.”

“Oh, so you just got up and left?  I hope you left a note.”  Archie then makes his way casually over to Mandy as she tries to figure out how to set up her new iPad.  What Archie’s just said doesn’t sit well with Mickey.

“What do you mean you hope I left a note,” he asks, curious.  The fact that this very thought popped into his head when he left makes him wonder if he should have gone with his gut and left him one.

“Oh, you know,” Archie responds nonchalantly, “so it doesn’t look like you just screwed him and left.  Soulmate or not, waking up alone after a night like the one I’m sure the two of you had would be kind of bruising to anyone’s ego.”

“Well I didn’t.”

Archie pauses before looking up at Mickey.  “Um, why not?”

“I didn’t think it was a big deal,” Mickey responds.  “I just came back to my place to change and give Mandy her gift.  I’m going back.”

Archie squints his eyes before waving the whole situation off.  “Well I’m pretty sure it’s fine.  Just like, give him a call, ok?”

“What the fuck for?  Ian’s a big boy. He’ll be fine.”

“Look, don’t get upset Mr. Grumps,” Archie says as he throws his hands up in surrender.  “Just a suggestion, and one from yours truly, so I would take it if I were you.”

“Look, he’ll be fine.  I’m just gonna shower, head back over and pick up some food along the way.”  Mickey pretends he doesn’t see Archie give him that ‘ _tsk tsk’_ look as he backs away.

While in the shower, Mickey closes his eyes, the hot water beating on his skin as he thinks of Ian and ponders over the things Archie’s just said.  Suddenly he sees Ian’s face, upset and staring straight through him.  He opens his eyes and feels his stomach tighten.  He shakes it off, watches his uncertainty wash down the drain.  Leave it to Archie to fuck with his head over something so minor.

He’s fine.  Ian’s _fine_.

////

_Mickey, 18._

_“You’re not used to this, are you man?”_

_Mickey pulls up his pants awkwardly as he tries to make sense of what just happened.  Logistically, he knows exactly what, so maybe it’s more a thing of how.  Until now it’s been girls.  Always girls.  It was his way of coping; covering up that ‘thing’ he knew would always be inside of him – inside his dreams.  He pushes his eyebrows inward, barely scrapes the surface of Benji’s question._

_“I’m not used to a lot of shit,” Mickey finally responds as he pulls up his zipper._

_Mickey wasn’t used to many things – order, rules, pancakes with no syrup, second glances.  Growing up Milkovich, you didn’t get exposure to or even educated on many things outside of guns and violence.  But out of everything, he definitely wasn’t used to being bent over and pounded into by a guy while in his basement.  It came out of nowhere, and Benji wasn’t even remotely obvious about liking guys.  As far as Mickey was concerned, he sold him his weed, the really good shit, at lower rates because he copped so much.  It was supposed to be a customer rapport thing.  It never crossed his mind that the guy was cruising him._

_Benji smiles as he watches Mickey continue to stand in one spot awkwardly, seemingly not knowing what to do next.  “Did you at least like it?” he finally asks a muted Mickey._

_Of course he did.  But that wasn’t it.  Mickey knows he can’t give up that kind of trust to someone too many times.  “It was fine,” he says nonchalantly, finally sitting down slowly._

_“Well if it makes you feel any better,” Benji starts as he lights up a spliff, “I’m versatile.  I can give it and take it if you wanna switch it up.”  Mickey shoots him a pointed glance.  “I mean, that is if you wanna continue this,” Benji responds._

_Mickey shoots up to his feet and begins to gather his things.  “Maybe man, I’ll see,” he says as he puts on his jacket, earning a confused look from Benji._

_“It’s cool man, you don’t gotta split so soon.”_

_“I-I’ll call you or whatever,” Mickey says quickly before jogging up the basement steps to leave._

_He doesn’t call Benji for three weeks._

////

Mickey decides to stop at Lilly’s Gourmet Pasta Express a few blocks up from his place before heading back to Ian’s.  It’s been over three hours since he left.  He was almost hesitant to leave his place, the destruction Hurricane Archie and Monsoon Mandy were bound to leave something he didn’t want to come back to.  They were already planning a little get-together at his place for New Year’s.

Maybe he could crash at Ian’s that night and get out of that one.

He makes his way inside of Lilly’s once he arrives.  It’s a good thing he came when he did, considering the place was closing at 4pm for Christmas.  The menu isn’t massive, but daunting enough for a first timer.  Mickey stands to the side for a few moments as he studies what to get, trying to wrap his head around what the hell Ian would even want.  He’s already feeling slightly overwhelmed, this whole considering someone else something foreign in his book.  And goodness, it’s just food.  He spends way too much time thinking about if Ian’s an alfredo, pesto or marinara guy.

“The rigatoni chicken picatta is a good one,” a voice says from behind Mickey.  He turns around slowly, and feels his stomach drop when he sees the face behind the mysterious voice.

“I can decide for myself thanks,” Mickey says dryly before turning back around.  Not getting the hint, Wes steps up next to him, and folds his arms as he looks up at the menu.

“Just a suggestion, that’s all,” Wes offers.  There’s a hint of something smug in his tone, and it’s effective at getting underneath Mickey’s skin.  Of course he would run into Wes of all fucking people.

“You can keep your suggestions.”

“Look Mickey, just being a good citizen,” Wes continues, “considering you looked lost while studying the menu.  And since I’ve been coming here for years – “

“The fuck do you want, huh?” Mickey cuts him off.  He turns so he’s fully facing Wes, folds his arms.  Mickey’s no idiot, he knows the guy is trying to make small talk for his own personal, ulterior motives.  “You could’ve kept your mouth shut when you saw me, but instead you try and make small talk.”

“Just helping with the menu.”

“I can read,” Mickey bites before walking up to the counter to place his order.  He plays it safe and gets one chicken parmesan and one chicken marsala.

He stands silent as he waits for his order, doesn’t give Wes another glance.  But he can clearly feel the guy staring holes in the side of his face.  He wants to ask him something so bad, Mickey can feel it.  When his order is finally ready, he grabs his bags and nearly knocks Wes over to get by.

“So, you and Ian,” Wes asks suddenly, “You two just colleagues, or are you together?”

Mickey turns around quickly, looks him up and down before answering.  “Together,” he responds bluntly.  They haven’t had the talk, but being soulmates and all, it’s pretty much a given.

He takes pleasure in the way Wes’ face falls.  But of course, he’s naturally an asshole and can’t back down from something like a man.  “Cool,” Wes says as nonchalantly as possible.  “So how’s he doing these days?” he adds.  Mickey’s head tells him to ignore the sonofabitch and keep walking – his gut however, tells him to ask why.  He goes with his gut.

“Fine, why you askin’?” Mickey asks sharply.

“Oh, you know,” Wes says complacently, like he’s got the keys to everything regarding Ian Gallagher, “Just what he’s dealing with.”

“Which is?” Mickey presses, feeling himself getting more upset by the second.

Wes smirks, hesitates before answering.  “You know what?  It’s not my place, forget I mentioned anything.”

“No,” Mickey bites as he takes a step towards Wes, “You don’t fucking get to do that, start saying some shit and back out like that.”

“Well maybe you should just ask Ian,” Wes says as he grabs his order.  “You two are after all, together.”  He maneuvers around Mickey as he exits the store and jumps into his white BMW.  Of course he would drive one of those.  Mickey’s not surprised to see there’s a girl in the passenger side.  He guesses it’s his infamous fiancé, Abbie.

He waves like an asshole before pulling off, leaving Mickey standing on the sidewalk more confused than ever.

////

Ian takes way too long to open the door when Mickey buzzes.  When he swings open the door, there’s a look of slight annoyance on his face.

“You came back,” Ian says as he steps back.  There’s an air of sarcasm in his voice.  It kind of rubs Mickey the wrong way, but he lets it slide.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Mickey says as he makes his way inside.  “I bought pasta from Lilly’s.”

“I already ate,” Ian responds as he makes his way to his couch and plops down.  He picks up his remote and begins to mindlessly flip through the channels.

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see that there’s some obvious tension in the room.  “Well then you can eat it later,” Mickey answers.  He begins to pull out the chicken parmesan, leaves the marsala for Ian.  There’s an awkward silence between the two, as Mickey plates up his food.  “Something wrong?”

He makes his way over to the couch and sits next to Ian, placing his food on the coffee table.  Ian continues to stare at the television.  Mickey knows he’s not interested in ‘ _Say Yes to the Dress’_ that he’s watching so intently.  Maybe he should have taken Archie’s advice after all.  He didn’t think Ian would be this fucking sensitive.

“Look, I was gone for three hours,” Mickey starts as he turns toward Ian.  “I went back to my place to get changed and give Mandy her gift.”

“No need to explain,” Ian says dryly, his eyes still occupied by white lace and chiffon.

“Yeah, but you’re obviously mad.”

“Not mad,” Ian counters.  “You could’ve just called, sent a text, hell, a note even.  No big deal though.”

“Like hell it isn’t.  You’re pissed.”

Ian shuts off the television and finally gives Mickey his full attention.  “Look, I’m sorry, it’s just…” he trails off.  “I’m not clingy, I’m not.  I just, have this thing…you know…with people taking off without word.”

“Didn’t think it was a big deal.  I’m just…” Mickey trails off.

“Not used to this?” Ian completes his thought.

“Yeah.”

Mickey thinks about how he’s not used to having someone.  It was already a huge step with him completely giving up a part of himself to Ian rarely experienced by anyone else, putting the little trust he had in his possession into his hands.  _Trust_.  That word creeps into his head as he suddenly thinks of what Wes said at Lilly’s.  While Mickey’s certain the guy was just fucking with him, there’s that feeling in his gut again that makes him decide to ask Ian about it.

“So,” he starts slowly, “I ran into Wes at Lilly’s.”

Ian’s face falls at the sound of his name.  “Just your luck, huh?  I swear, I can’t wait until he’s back in Connecticut so we don’t have to worry about randomly seeing him.”

“He asked me how you were doing lately, because of what you were dealing with.”

There’s a thunderous clap of silence that hits.  The quiet is even deafening.  Ian shifts uncomfortably as begins to fidget with the hem of his shirt.  He looks away from Mickey.  “That all he said?” he finally breaks the silence.

“For the most part,” Mickey says suspiciously.  “Ay, look, is there something you wanna tell me?”

Ian casts his eyes to the floor before closing them for a few moments.  “Yeah…” he trails off, “there is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that they're "together" it's time for them to uncover certain things about each other. I wanted to kind of take you all back to certain parts of their past to show you why they react a certain way in different situations. Also, while there are probably some really great AU fics where Ian is very open and straight forward about being bipolar, I don't see it like that. Given how secretive and somewhat disconnected Ian can be, I feel like it would take him some time to really reveal this part about himself. In this fic, he wouldn't just readily blurt this out - he wants to approach it carefully. Now, how will Mickey, someone who knows virtually nothing about the disorder take the news?! Also, Wes... :-/ I despise my own character lol. At least I gave you sexy times. :)))
> 
> Come say hi at penprowess.tumblr.com


	9. Pretty in Pink (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And just like that the connection is ended. Ian finds himself still staring at the screen moments after, despite there being no one there. He powers down the laptop, the dark shine of the screen showing him his reflection, his features smeared by the black display. His face looks distorted and sad.
> 
> There’s a fleeting thought that infiltrates his mind to just burn the damn laptop. Maybe it’ll all go away after it melts in the flames. But he dismisses the impulse thought. Two years ago, he would’ve followed through, easily. Instead, he continues to look at his distorted reflection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa, yeah, so hey there everyone. It's been forever and a day since I've updated this fic, so please forgive me. I must say, this chapter is broken up into 2 parts - it was turning out to be so long, I thought it not robbery to break this installment up. Really, I had to lol. This first part may seem vague, with only subtle hints to what's to come, but for those of you read-between-the-lines folks, you'll enjoy doing that here, because this chapter is full of that, somewhat (I think?). Anyway, enough of that. This chapter deals a lot with Ian's bipolar disorder and will open up a lot of his past (mainly to unfold fully in Part 2), and although there is nothing grueling in this chapter, I just wanted to say that.
> 
> I hope this ends up being worth the ridiculous wait. Some light smut in the beginning to hopefully make up for the wait...and I do mean light ha! Love you all. :)

He only wants to make him feel good, give him enough reassurance.  Every inch of him is screaming for him to.  He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until a hollow pain travels up his neck.  As he exhales, he feels himself begin to unravel.  He inhales deeply after a pause, thrusts even deeper as thighs tighten around him, willingly catching whatever reassurance he has to give.

“I’m sorry,” Ian breathes out, his open mouth hovering directly over Mickey’s. 

The rhythm is what it’s supposed to be, skin on skin, bones filling the empty spaces just as they should.  But there’s a stutter where confidence used to be.  Ian grips Mickey’s wrists hard, too hard, pressing his fingernails into the flesh, leaving crescent moons on the dark side of his skin pressed into the sheets. His hips snap forward, his grip tightens even more.  _Stutter_.

Mickey feels Ian’s uncertainties bubbling to the surface.  He flips him suddenly onto his back, presses him down as he slowly lowers himself onto him.  Once he’s seated, he bends forward, pins Ian’s wrists above his head and places his face less than an inch from his.  “Sorry for what?” he says lowly, his movement never faltering. 

Ian doesn’t answer, only possessively presses his fingertips deep into Mickey’s hips, sure to leave marks there.  Suddenly, he’s afraid again.  _Insecure._

 

_“I can’t be with you.”_

_There’s a harsh clanging in his head.  The words are like a wooden spoon banging on the bottom of an empty pan.  He thinks it’s the meds, but after hearing the words repeat in his mind a few times, he realizes the clanging is denial.  It’s louder than his own thoughts – louder than when he was in that dreadful cement box.  Ian screws his eyes shut, places both of his hands over his face.  With the exception of his staggered breathing, he remains silent, refuses to respond to his biggest fear._

_“Ian, don’t ignore me right now,” Wes says as he moves closer to him.  “Look, I thought I could do this,” he continues, “but truth is I just don’t know anymore.”_

_Ian finally undoes his closed eyes, peeks through the cracks of his fingers first.  He needs to make sure the person in front of him isn’t an imposter.  The sight is disappointing.  He removes his hands, realizes Wes is very much himself and more than serious.  “The hell do you want me to say, huh?” Ian finally answers, “That I get it?  That it’s fine for you to just run?”_

_“Nobody’s running,” Wes counters.  “It’s just…” he trails off, his eyes landing on Ian’s shaky hands.  “This is harder than I thought, and too unpredictable.  What you did, it – “_

_“Was what?  Crazy?” Ian cuts him off.  He laughs, stands to his feet and feels the room shrink around the elephant in it.  Suddenly it’s hard to breathe, and there’s no more space left for the two of them.  The unspoken is just too big.  So maybe it’s best that the weaker one leaves, lets the other one breathe easy._

_“You can’t even say it,” Ian says, his voice low._

_“Neither can you.”  Wes bites hardest when he doesn’t intend to.  And just like that, they both begin to suffocate on what little air there is.  Neither is stronger than the other.  Ian saw this coming, hates himself for feeling hurt._

_Understanding he’s no longer welcome, Wes moves to exit Ian’s apartment.  He doesn’t say goodbye.  He doesn’t bother with sorry.  He simply turns before exiting and smiles weakly at Ian, who sits back on his couch, stares down at his hands.  Senior year was going to be absolute shit._

_“You’re not the one I dream about anyway,” Ian says, refusing to look up.  But he wonders to himself as the door slams shut – what happens when it is?_

_That night he dreams of the same faceless guy with black hair, slowly backing away, pill bottles scattered in the floor all around him._

 

There’s a light slap across his face to make him focus.  Ian looks up at Mickey who’s looking down at him intently.  “Ah, fuck…stay with me,” he practically pleads for Ian to focus.  “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Ian finally says, his breathing unsteady.  It’s the first thing that comes out of his mouth, memories resounding in his head, materializing through his words.  His boyfriend is having none of that, having tabled their misgivings the night before when talks of bipolar disorder and meds died in Ian’s silence after coming clean.  He couldn’t say anymore, and despite Mickey’s own, personal reservations, he didn’t expect him to.

“Ian,” Mickey attempts at silencing his insecurities. 

Ian tries his best to swallow his words, brings his hands up and weaves his fingers together tightly behind Mickey’s neck.  He grips, feels Mickey clench around him and almost comes as he furiously sucks on his bottom lip.  There’s a mixture of fear, uncertainty and pleasure covering Ian’s skin.  Mickey stares down at him.  He’s a beautiful mess. 

This is what always happens when he reveals the most unstable part of himself to someone.  Ian begins to tug on the hairs at the nape of Mickey’s neck, loses the battle to keep any words to himself.  “Mick, I – “

“I don’t wanna hear it,” Mickey cuts him off as he cradles his face.  He continues to ride Ian, slow and steady, filling in the gaps where Ian hesitates, brushes his thumb gently across his cheek.  “It doesn’t fucking matter.”

Ian opens his mouth to respond, but gets swallowed in the wave of his own orgasm.  Mickey’s eyes are locked onto his as he too climaxes, and simultaneously forgets about the threat of his soulmate’s changing moods and hitting brick walls without warning, even if momentarily.

Ian never does.

 

_“I’m bipolar.”_

_The clanging returns in Ian’s head, the bang, bang, bang of the same wooden spoon on the bottom of the empty pan.  This time it’s his own words that do it, his own anxieties that ricochet off the corners of his mind.  It’s the loudest shit he’s ever heard.  He isn’t looking at Mickey when he tells him, refuses to._

_Mickey lets out a long breath, slides to next to Ian on the couch.  “So that’s what that asshole Wes was hinting at, huh?” he responds._

_“I was gonna tell you,” Ian offers, “just didn’t think it would be this soon, or this way.”_

_“You on meds?” Mickey asks evenly.  The calmness in his voice alarms Ian, not a trace of shakiness in his tone like he expected._

_Ian shakes his head.  “Yeah,” he responds, “Have been since I was seventeen.”  They remain silent for a few moments, and except for the noise in his head, Ian almost convinces himself everything is quiet.  But his mind will never be quiet.  He attempts to look at Mickey, but he doesn’t want to see the look on his face, doesn’t want to guess what he’s thinking._

_“Don’t ever think you have to hide anything from me, Ian,” Mickey breaks the silence.  “I’m ok with this.”_

_“Are you?” Ian asks, apprehensive._

_“Yeah,” Mickey responds.  “And even if I wasn’t, I’d force myself to be,” he continues, “just to make sure you always are.”_

_Ian believes him, breathes a little easier – until he looks up and sees him worrying his bottom lip._

 

Mickey never admits to himself that he watches Ian sleep after sex – every time.  Instead, he tells himself he simply falls asleep first, and the way his eyes follow the rise and fall of Ian’s chest as he breathes is just an observation.  No, he’s not watching him at all, especially while he studies the way his eyes move in rapid bursts behind his eyelids.  Always dreaming. 

Post-coital, sleep comes always easily for Ian, but there’s something urgent in the way his eyes are darting back and forth and how they pause for a split second before darting again – something fearful.   Ian grunts and mutters something hard to decipher.  Mickey has no clue what he’s murmuring, but he can almost feel the dream, hear it even as this one appears to be hard, dropping in Ian’s subconscious like a ton of bricks.

Ian begins to shake, like his bones are fighting to come through the surface of his skin.  No longer ‘observing’ and now worried, Mickey begins to gently shake Ian, trying to wake him up.  But the dream he’s in is too deep.  The shaking gets more violent, his eyes darting franticly, causing Mickey to shake more rigorously while his grip tightens around Ian’s forearm.

Even in REM, Ian is strong as he unconsciously shakes Mickey off of him with a force that only makes him retreat – and continue to watch.

 

_It comes back that night with a vengeance, except this time, the faceless guy is now Mickey.  His blue eyes are lackluster and sad, and in his hands are four pill bottles – two in the left, two in the right.  There are more in the floor.  He holds them up, and takes a step towards Ian.  There’s pleading in his tightly pressed lips, in the twitching of his jaw._

_Ian feels himself take a step back before he turns around and sees himself in a mirror.  He’s wearing a yellow shirt – the yellow shirt, like mustard.  And just like the taste of mustard, he despises the color._

 

Ian jolts out of his sleep and throws his hand behind him to grab onto Mickey, a reflex, but he only grabs an empty space.  He turns and sees him sitting at the end of the bed, his face illuminated by the light coming from his laptop screen.  Mickey’s hunched over, pounding at the keys furiously, the _tap, tap, tap_ sounding anything but casual. 

“What are you doing?” Ian asks groggily. 

Mickey’s shoulders jump.  He’s startled.  And rightfully so.  He quickly closes the laptop, makes his way back up the bed and places it on the nightstand.  “My idiot brother decided at the last minute he wants to come here for New Year’s,” Mickey says as he slides next to Ian, “so I’m looking for decently priced plane tickets, which you can find sometimes dirt cheap at 4:00am.”

“Iggy?”

“Yeah,” Mickey answers as he maneuvers for them to both lay down.  He clears his throat, quickly swipes his thumb across his bottom lip.  “Now go back to sleep.”  He kisses Ian gently, before he moves him to position his back onto his chest.  He wraps one arm around him, feels his heartbeat racing.  It thumps furiously, fighting to break through his ribcage and Mickey realizes, he’s been more than dreaming.

As Ian closes his eyes, Mickey instinctively takes his thumb and rubs it across his heartbeat.  It calms Ian momentarily, but as he drifts off, the dream comes back as soon as he slips completely away.  So does Mickey’s watching.

////

“The hell are _you_ doing here?”

Mickey scoffs in disbelief, his key still in the door.  He doesn’t even get a chance to turn the damn thing before Archie swings the door open like he owns the place.  The keys dangle and bang against the wood, the dramatic brunette not even fazed by the fact that he’s messed with Mickey’s grip, catching him off guard. 

“Ummm…how ‘bout I fucking live here?” Mickey responds in a half question as he attempts to slide past Archie, who’s spread across the entrance like a starfish bodyguard.

“And?” Archie challenges, “Shouldn’t you be with your beau, romancing it up?  Ian should be needing a new mattress by now.  I expect nothing less than collateral damage from you two.”

Mickey groans and closes his eyes, not even shocked by Archie’s commentary, but the effects are nonetheless cringe worthy.  One can never properly prepare themselves for anything he says.  “I’ve only been with Ian for the past two days,” Mickey says as he wiggles past Archie and makes his way to the kitchen, still shaking his head about the mattress remark.  Leave it to Archie to jump head first into the gutter.  “I haven’t even been back to my own apartment _Archibald_.  And _why_ am I explaining shit to you anyway?” Mickey challenges. 

“You know by now it’s required by law to oblige me,” Archie quips as he places his hands on his hips.  “And I let you slide the first time you called me by my government, and now – you must sleep with one eye open Mykhailo.”

“Very fucking funny,” Mickey responds as he raises a brow to the ceiling.  He opens his refrigerator and lets out an exasperated groan when he notices all of his beers are gone.  “You gotta be fucking kidding me.  You two assholes drank all my beer?  Really?” he scoffs rhetorically.  

“Not two, one,” Archie corrects.  “Your sister is tiny but she can throw them back like a two hundred pound biker.  Besides, beer makes me bloated,” he continues as he rubs his hands down his stomach.  “Now, about that mattress – Ian will be needing a new one I take?”

“Fuck!  No!” Mickey practically shouts.

Archie shakes his head from side to side.  “Mickey, I’m disappointed sweetie.”

“Who are you, and where did you come from?”

“Venus,” Archie retorts sarcastically as he squints his eyes at Mickey, examining him up and down.  He lets out a grunt of disapproval.

Mickey dismisses Archie’s glare as he begins rummaging through one of the drawers.  “Why the hell are you still here anyway?  And where’s Mandy?”

“I’m still here because your poor sister would’ve been alone had it not been for me,” Archie offers as he makes his way to the couch and plops down like he owns it, in an almost free fall.  He props his feet up on the coffee table, places his hands behind his head and raises a challenging brow to Mickey’s.

“And your old man?”

“Still alive,” Archie responds unenthused.  “He’s probably too busy redecorating his penthouse.  He does it before New Year’s every year.  Right now I’d be just a clashing line in some new design of wallpaper – he barely notices me.” 

For a moment, Mickey feels sad for Archie.  Thinks about what it must be like to live with the memory of a soulmate lost, while trying to pick up what pieces there were left of a life broken by such a tragedy.  “Not notice you?  That’s impossible.”

“Spare me the sympathy.  I like you better jaded and grumpy,” Archie quickly cuts Mickey’s moment of pity in half.  “Mandy!” he calls to the back.  “We have a visitor!”

Mandy makes her way to the living room a few seconds later, her face already in a scowl when she sees Mickey.  Mickey nearly loses his breath when he sees her, blinks a few times to make sure he isn’t seeing things.  He opens his mouth to speak, but gibberish comes out.  Mandy smiles devilishly, waltzes right up to her brother and punches him the arm before he can find his words.

“Ow!  Bitch!” Mickey wails as he grabs his arm. 

“Motherfucker!” she screams.  She hits him again, invades his personal bubble.  “Where the fuck have you been?  I’m only in this God forsaken city for less than a week more, and you decide to disappear for two days?”

Mickey casts his eyes to the top of Mandy’s head and grimaces.  “So you dye your fucking hair blonde?” he shrugs.  “What?  Did you have another one of your meltdowns?  Like the time you were ten and cried when Scottie Day wouldn’t hold your hand anymore and you tried to dye your hair with red cool-aid…on black hair.”

Archie lets out a loud snort as he looks at Mandy.  “Red cool-aid?” he asks through a laugh, “Why darling, how…primitive.”

“Shut the fuck up Archie!” Mandy bites.  “Dying my hair blonde was your idea!”  She picks up a pillow off of the couch and chucks it at him.

“This is your handy work?” Mickey asks Archie.

Proudly, Archie shakes his head and stands.  He makes his way over to Mandy and Vanna White walks around her.  “Yours truly,” he smiles. 

“Why am I not surprised?”

“Such a hater,” Archie says slowly as he flips Mandy’s hair for her.

Ignoring Archie, Mickey looks at his sister, his eyes scanning the crown of her head.  “Seriously though, what’s behind this shit?”

“Just wanted to bring the New Year in with something different,” she huffs.  “Ring it in brand new, leave all the old shit behind, ya know?”

“No, I don’t know,” Mickey shrugs.

“You know what, enough about my hair,” Mandy waves off Mickey as she makes her way to the couch and begins rummaging through her purse.  “And speaking of New Year’s, what’s the plan?”

“We have a show that night Mandy,” Mickey responds as he looks over towards Archie who shakes his head in agreement.  “Plus I don’t wanna be bothered with idiot crowds and checking my pants for my wallet every ten seconds.”

“And how do you know someone will pick your pocket?” Archie asks.

“Because I used to be one of those assholes who did that shit on New Year’s back in Chicago,” Mickey answers gruffly.  “We’re in a different city, but the same kind of assholes exist everywhere, one of them being my brother.”

“We can all go out after,” Mandy interjects as she begins to pull stuff out.  After fumbling through her purse for a few more moments, Mandy finally pulls out her phone, opens a text message.  “And speaking of brother, Iggy said he’s gonna be in Boston thanks to you.”  She walks over to Mickey and holds her phone up to his face, her cracked screen causing Mickey to squint as he struggles to read the puny text from Iggy.  He inwardly groans, sees his sister glorying in his realization.  “Not doing anything on New Year’s while shithead’s in town?  Mickey you know that’s not happening.”

He rubs his hand across his face, and suddenly remembers Iggy knows nothing about Ian – probably has no clue that he’s gay.  There’s a sloshing feeling in the pit of his stomach, all anxiety and bile mixing.  Mickey squints again and reads the message, realizing right there in the light of a tiny cellphone screen that Iggy meeting Ian would be the least of his worries, everything in the text spelled out in classic Iggy-isms.

_[ **Iggy 12:10pm:** yo i’ma b there in fuckin bean town sis we gettin lit. tell mickey dnt b a pussy *devil smiley*]_

“You see?” Mandy asks rhetorically, “It’s inevitable.”  Mickey looks at his sister with worried eyes, his jaw doing the dance it does when he’s nervous about something.  “The hell are you nervous about?”  When he looks away from her, Mandy picks up instantly on what he’s nervous about.  “ _Riiiight_ – he’s gonna have to meet Ian.”

She chuckles as she looks down into her phone and begins to scroll through her texts.  She holds up her phone yet again and shoves it in Mickey’s face.  Once again, he squints his already bad eyes – because he grew up too ghetto and too poor to ever afford glasses which he’s needed since the second grade – so really he squints his very fucked up eyes and reads another text from Iggy.  He feels his whites catch more air as his eyes widen, scanning over the words.

_[ **Iggy 12:21pm:** n tell mickey 2 plz bring his red headed bf. that asshole nevr fuckin told me he met his soulmate.  dick] _

“He knows?!” Mickey yells as he stabs his sister with a pointed glare. 

Mandy shrugs, brushes the dirt off of her shoulder.  “Yup.  I told him about Ian.  And guess what?  He doesn’t even give half a shit about who you screw.”

“Ok, whatever,” Mickey huffs.  “But how about next time, you and your big ass mouth talk to me first?”

This only earns him a middle finger from Mandy.  She turns around and grabs up her purse, heads straight for the door.  “Gotta do a store run,” she says as she looks behind her.  “You guys need anything?”

“What you goin’ to get?” Mickey asks.

“I asked if you wanted anything, not to be in my fucking business,” she huffs.  “Besides, it’s…personal.”

“On the rag?” Mickey laughs.

“You now what?  Forget it!  Go to hell Mickey!” she yells just as she slams the door behind her.

Mickey looks at Archie and grins.  “Yup, definitely on the rag.”

“I was wondering why she almost bit my head off the other night for forgetting the mushrooms on the pizza we ordered,” Archie responds.

“Weird,” Mickey says as a confused look spreads across his face, “She fucking hates mushrooms.”  Suddenly, the confused looks fades and changes into something more serious and pensive.  He’s staring in Archie’s direction, but his eyes are focusing on nothing in particular behind him.  There’s a worried line that slowly forms across his forehead, although not visible, but Archie can clearly see it.

“Something on your mind?” Archie asks Mickey.

Mickey snaps out of his haze, his eyes finally focusing on the face in front of him.  “You know anything about bipolar disorder?” he asks lowly, so low, it alarms Archie.  His voice is careful, as if trying not to disturb someone sleeping.

Archie smiles lightly, looks up to the ceiling.  He looks back at Mickey, his eyes knowing and suddenly taking on the look as if he’s _been there, done that_.  “Ian finally told you, huh?” Archie asks.

Mickey frowns for a second, his face softening as he realizes Archie already knows about Ian’s disorder.  “You know?”

“Yeah, I do,” Archie offers.  “I have for a long time, but if there’s anything further you wanna know, I think you should let Ian tell you.”

“That’s the thing,” Mickey responds, “I don’t think he will.  That dick Wes told me when I ran into him a few days ago, and when I told Ian about it, he more like fessed up to it.”

“Asshole!” Archie screams.

“Asshole?  Ay, don’t get pissed at me!”

“Not you idiot,” Archie calms Mickey, “Wes.  I’ve had enough of him, that pretty boy cunt.  Sonofabitch needs to stay in his lane.”  Clearly upset, he runs both of his hands down his face and lets out a worried breath.  “You’re not having second thoughts about Ian are you?” he asks, his eyes back on the ceiling.

“I couldn’t if I wanted to,” Mickey answers.  He hears Archie let out a noise that’s a cross between frustration and amusement, wonder wedged somewhere in the overlap.

“Then you don’t truly know the complexities of soulmates,” Archie responds as he stands.  Mickey doesn’t return a word, only looks at his hands, studies the way they’re gripping the fabric of his jeans without him realizing.  Archie studies them too.  “Why don’t you come with me somewhere,” he suggests.

“Where?” Mickey asks, still looking at his hands.

“I have to stop by and see someone.  I think it would be good for you to meet them.”

“Good for me to meet who?  And why exactly?”

“Just please stop asking questions and bring your cute little ass,” Archie demands.  “You got somewhere else to be right now?”

“Maybe.”

“Ha!  Well that means no,” Archie dismisses Mickey’s maybe.  “What about Ian?”

“Ian’s got…” Mickey trails off, approaching the next word as if saying it too hard will cause some type of explosion.  “Therapy,” he finally manages to say as he looks up.

“Well then,” Archie smiles, “and now, so do you.”

////

“Straighten your laptop!  All I can see is that red hair of yours,” Fiona bellows into the receiver of her own laptop.  Ian pulls his screen downward so his entire face is visible, just as she puts her face as close to the camera as possible and crosses her eyes, causing him to snort – the first smile in twenty minutes.  “Gettin’ long by the way,” she comments, casting her eyes on his crown.

“Something new I’m trying,” Ian says as he halfway runs his hand through his hair.

“Maybe you should get your _boyfriend_ to give you a haircut,” Fiona quips, placing extra emphasis on the word ‘boyfriend.’  It’s the hundredth time she’s used the word during their Skype conversation, despite it getting almost no rise out of Ian.  She could care less about the gifts he’d sent all of them, glazing over the _‘happy holidays’_ and _‘why didn’t you come home’s.’_

Finding your soulmate isn’t an event that comes around too often, so when it happens, everyone you’re close to celebrates right along with you, places other things on back burners and on the high shelves.  Your joy is their joy.  Love permeates even through the airwaves, gets contagious.  Your family smiles, calls you all the time and gushes over your new future, even if being sweet and full of wonder isn’t their thing.  So it was no surprise to Ian when he’d confided in his big brother about it finally happening and it no longer being speculation, but not to tell anyone yet, that Philip _‘my lips are sealed’_ Gallagher would spill, easily.  Fiona was the first to call him, immediately hanging up her qualms about Mickey Milkovich.

He was _the one_ after all.  That title erased all past sins.

Ian wanted it to be him to tell his family.  At the right time.  It had to be him.  Especially considering he was already walking on a tightrope without a balancing pole.  Shit was already getting real, pills sinking to the bottom of his half full glass of water. 

Feeling the quiet lingering too long, Ian forces a smile, failing miserably at hiding his worry.  “Yeah,” he says with little conviction, “he’d probably enjoy that way too much.”

Even through Skype, Fiona can tell something is wrong.

“What’s going on with you Ian?” Fiona asks.

“Nothing,” he lies, “I’m fine.  Just tired from the busy holiday season with shows and whatnot.”  There’s more awkward silence that falls between him and his sister, and suddenly something stirs in Ian’s chest and he remembers.

If there’s one thing Fiona is, it’s intuitive, especially when it comes to her siblings.  “You wanna talk about it?” she asks, knowing her brother clamps down on his tongue when he’s trying to hide something.

“No,” Ian says as he looks away from his screen.  “But can I ask you something?” he asks, his eyes still looking elsewhere.

“Anything,” Fiona responds.

Finally refocusing on the screen, Ian takes a deep breath, and exhales.  “Is it a failsafe?” he asks ambiguously.

Fiona furrows her eyebrows in clear confusion.  “Is what a failsafe?” she asks.

“Feelings between soulmates?”

“I would like to thinks so,” Fiona says concerned, “but just like everything else in life, nothing comes easily.”  Ian responds with an inaudible murmur before turning his head away again.  “What was that?  I’m sorry, Ian, where is this going?”

“Nowhere,” Ian says as he begins to fumble with something next to his laptop.  He picks up his cellphone, studies it momentarily, then places it back down.  “Look, I gotta go Fi,” he ends suddenly.

“You just can’t ask some vague question like that without explaining, and just take off,” Fiona huffs.  “What’s going on?  Is it Mickey?”

“I have an appointment with Dr. Gibson,” Ian deflects once again. 

Fiona gets more concerned as she looks at the way her brother becomes aloof.  It’s a look she’s seen before.  “Ian, is it Mickey?” she presses again, “You gotta give me something.”

“Got nothing to give,” Ian averts again, this time with a rather dreary response, bending around answering his sister. 

“What?” Fiona asks more concerned.  She knows she’s speaking to the four walls now, but she presses anyway, hoping she’ll land on the right button.  “Are you feeling ok?  You know you can tell me anything, especially after everything we’ve been thorugh.”

Ian then focuses his eyes on his screen.  One side of his mouth rises ever so slightly.  “The dreams are back,” he finally answers.  He’s hesitant to see his sister’s reaction, but already knows the facial expression coming before it surfaces.  Fiona’s big brown eyes sadden, her mouth lowering slightly the way it does when she puts on her mother hat – the one where one of her children – because her younger siblings were just that – has gotten hurt by something.

“I promised you I’d never let you end up back there,” Fiona responds, her voice deeper, sympathetic.  “Ian, if it’s the last thing I do, you have to know that, hold on to it.”

“But what if I do, huh?” he challenges.  He rubs his hands over his face.  “Because to be honest Fi, I feel like that’s not too far off of a possibility.”

Fiona bites her lower lip and looks away briefly.  “Is it time?” she asks.

“Time to what?”

“You know…” she trails off, making sure she chooses her next words wisely.  “To recalibrate your meds.”

 “I just did that six months ago,” Ian answers.  “Besides, it’s not the meds.  In fact, I’ve never felt more stable since this combination Dr. Gibson has me on.”

“Then you know what you need to do Ian,” Fiona says as she gives Ian her serious mother look.

“I know, confront my demons, blah, blah, blah,” Ian responds sarcastically. 

Fiona lets out a laugh as she shakes her head, her brown eyes lighting slightly before dimming again.  “No,” she counters as she folds her arms.  “Confront yourself.”

He felt that one coming.  Fiona always hit hardest without using her fists.  Ian allows the words to sink in for a few moments, realizes his sister’s right.  “And how do I know I won’t make the same mistakes again?” he asks.

“You don’t,” Fiona answers.  “Look, you weren’t thinking straight when – “ A loud crash in the background interrupts her sentence and grabs her attention.  The loud sound is followed by crying that sounds a lot like his nephew Mason.  “Shit, shit!” Fiona screams.  “Ian, I gotta go,” she rushes, “It sounds like Mason is up to his antics again.  Just remember what I said.  Love you, bye!”

And just like that the connection is ended.  Ian finds himself still staring at the screen moments after, despite there being no one there.  He powers down the laptop, the dark shine of the screen showing him his reflection, his features smeared by the black display.  His face looks distorted and sad.

There’s a fleeting thought that infiltrates his mind to just burn the damn laptop.  Maybe it’ll all go away after it melts in the flames.  But he dismisses the impulse thought.  Two years ago, he would’ve followed through, easily.  Instead, he continues to look at his distorted reflection.

But he still isn’t nearly as distorted as he was when he was locked away, with more yellow shirts than he cares to count.  Ian’s certain if Mickey finds out about his stint in an institution, and the things he did to get there, no soulmate bond, not even a so-called consummate connection, will keep him around.

Ian’s certain of it.

////

Judging by the sleeping homeless man he’s sitting next to on the bus, Mickey’s sure where he’s going will more than likely be reminiscent of home.  A rough neighborhood.  He turns and looks at Archie, the reason why he’s even on this bus and nudges him in the ribs.  He’s been quiet, too quiet and staring off into the distance which is making Mickey more nervous than when he is loud and all over the place.

“Ow,” Archie winces, “What was that for?”

“You’re being too quiet,” Mickey says, “It’s fuckin’ scary.”

Archie smiles as he rubs his ribs.  “Well, a girl has to be poised sometimes.”

“Funny,” Mickey chuckles.  “But you’re no girl – you’re a queen.”

“So are you sweetheart, you just don’t know it yet.”

Mickey snorts out another laugh, causing the homeless man next to him to stir.  Archie laughs with him, before his face turns serious again.  It makes Mickey wonder exactly where they’re going and why, given the fact the chattiest person he knows is now suddenly almost mute.  Its Twilight Zone material it’s so eerie.  He thinks about asking Archie what it is that’s bothering him, but decides against it.  He figures, once he’s ready to talk about it, he will.

“So where are we going anyway?” Mickey asks.  He looks outside the bus window, sees the buildings getting shittier, the sidewalks more cracked and spat on.  Something tells him they’re not going to Auntie Annie’s house.

“I usually bring Ian with me,” Archie responds, still not answering the question, “But this time I’m binging you.”

“To where though?” Mickey asks again.

Archie turns and grins at him, and just as Mickey starts to ask yet again, but with a lot more bite this time, the bus comes to a grinding halt, nearly sending the vagrant man onto the bus floor.  “We’re here,” Archie says as he stands to exit the bus.  Mickey hesitates getting off with him, suddenly feeling bamboozled, but he has no clue where he is.  Even though he’s from a rough neighborhood, this hood isn’t _his_ hood.  “So are you coming, or staying with your new best friend there?” Archie nods his head towards the homeless man re-positioning himself for some more beauty rest.

Mickey stands, follows Archie off of the bus and is immediately hit with that familiar stench of urban decay and trouble in the alleys.  He turns to his left and immediately spots a drug deal happening out in the open.  It’s the old hand slap and pull, like a greeting between homies.  Mickey knows the gesture all too well.  Across the street he sees a pick-up game of craps, dollar bills floating from hands to the ground.  Everything’s so foreign, but so familiar.  As he turns back to his right, he sees Archie already walking down the street.  He jogs to catch up to him.

“Ay, where are we going?” Mickey attempts again.  But all he gets is more babble from the brunette.

“The first time I brought Ian, he kept checking his back pocket for his wallet every time we walked past people,” Archie laughs.  “I could tell he wasn’t in the Southside of Chicago very long.”  He picks up his pace.  Mickey decides to just trust Archie and follow him, as he’s refusing to answer his question. 

They walk a few blocks, until they come up to a housing project of four buildings.  He continues to tail Archie until they reach the third building and enter the lobby.  There’s graffiti on the walls in the hallway, the lighting is shitty and flickering.  Mickey begins to wonder what kind of business Archie has in a neighborhood like this.  He stands, still silent as they wait for the elevator to come.  It takes decades.  He almost suggests the stairs, but knows better than to do that in an unknown project – the stairs are probably worse.  The elevator finally arrives, the doors screaming as they open, clearly in need of some serious maintenance.

When they step inside, there’s that undeniable stench of urine and lingering weed.  “Where the fuck are we?” Mickey asks, anxious now, as they exit the elevator and begin to walk down the hall.  Still not answering, Archie simply looks behind him and smiles mischievously.  They finally stop at a door, and just when Mickey feels he’s about to blow is top, Archie bangs on apartment 403, and less than ten seconds later, the door swings open.

“Archie!  My baby!” a heavyset African American woman screams as soon as she spots him.  She has her hair swooped up in a high, curly ponytail, and when she pulls Archie in for a hug, Mickey’s eyes zero in on her long, bright orange nails shaped almost like daggers.  They could probably slice through flesh and bone.  She pulls away smiling wide, revealing the whitest teeth Mickey’s ever seen.  Her skin is dark and smooth, her eyes a hazelnut brown.  “Habari gani?” she asks him in a foreign language.

Archie places his hands on his hips and turns around to look at Mickey.  “Well Mrs. Jameson, the news is I brought a new friend with me.  His name’s Mickey.”

Mrs. Jameson peeps around Archie and smiles even wider at Mickey who looks lost.  She mimics Archie, places her hands on her hips and stares at Mickey.  “Your feet glued to the floor or something honey?” she asks the lost boy.  He opens his mouth to respond, but before he can say a word, she stretches out her arms.  “You better get over here handsome and give me some love!”  Archie nods for Mickey to move in, and when he does, he’s instantly smothered by her bosom and enveloped by the scent of Egyptian musk and vanilla.  “Any friend of Archie’s is a new adopted son of mine.  Habari gani?!”

Her arms are thick, doughy and soft.  She finally releases Mickey, who’s now wearing an even more dazed look on his face.  It takes him a moment to gather himself, and when he does, he raises his brows to the ceiling.  “Habara-what?” he asks, butchering the phrase.

Mrs. Jameson chuckles and beckons for them to come in.  Mickey’s nose is instantly hit by the smell of food cooking in the kitchen which instantly makes his mouth water.  He’s never smelled food that good.  She pulls out two chairs for them, her teeth never disappearing.  “Habari gani is Swahili for ‘what’s the news?’” she clarifies.  “It’s a language spoken in Southeast Africa, and is used when celebrating Kwanzaa in the US, an African American holiday.”

“Jamaal used to laugh and say that his family was the only black family in all of Boston, probably the United States, that still celebrated Kwanzaa,” Archie reminisces.  In that moment, Mickey sees a photo of a young man hanging in the living room.  He has the same light brown eyes as his mother and teeth just as white.  He’s actually quite beautiful.  It must be Jamaal, and Mr. Jameson, is obviously his mother.

“You’re Jamaal’s mom?” Mickey asks as he looks back at Mrs. Jameson. 

She nods her head, and smiles endearingly.  “That, I am,” she responds.  There’s a proudness in her voice lined by a sadness that will probably always be there.  “And this one here,” she says as she looks at Archie, “is my second son, has been since the day Jamaal introduced him to me.  He comes and visits me every month still.”

“She makes a lemon pineapple cake that’ll make you cry,” Archie says as he rubs his stomach.  He darts his eyes over to Mrs. Jameson and bats his eyes.

“Of course I made one,” Mrs. Jameson says knowingly.  “It’s too bad _pretty in pink_ isn’t here to enjoy it too.  Where is he by the way?”

“Pretty in pink?” Mickey asks Archie.

“Ian,” Archie responds.  “Mrs. Jameson calls him pretty in pink because he’s from Chicago and has a beautiful edge to him like Andie.  He’s cool, but not completely in the in-crowd, ya know?  Oh, and not to mention that lustrous, red hair.”

“And the boy is pretty just like Molly Ringwald,” she laughs.  Her voice is loud and rich, and carries through the whole house.  “And we all know who Duckie is, don’t we Archie?” she continues to laugh before standing.  “And true Pretty in Pink fans all know that in the original ending, Andie and Duckie ended up together, but it was changed.”

Mickey’s seen the movie Pretty in Pink once when Mandy bitched for him to watch it with her years ago.  But he was high out of his mind, and barely remembers what happened.  He does remember the goofy best friend, Duckie, who was in love with the main character, and now he wonders who Mrs. Jameson is referring to.  His mind instantly goes to Wes, which almost causes a blood vessel to rupture in his eye.

“Well Mickey here,” Archie starts as he dismisses the question.  He pats Mickey on the shoulder, “He’s definitely Blane.”

Mrs. Jameson turns around at the stove as she stirs a large pot and exposes her large, white teeth.  “The _one_?” she asks.

“Yup,” Archie answers like a proud parent.  “In the flesh.  I mean, the guy was in vehement denial for the longest, threatened to demolish my Liza Minnelli collection and everything he was so hell bent on _not_ admitting anything.”

“I know you almost had a heart attack when he threatened to get rid of Liza,” she laughs.

“Barely survived.”  Archie clutches his chest at the mere thought, earning an eye roll from Mickey.

“Sounds like my Jamaal,” Mrs. Jameson says as she closes the pot.  She opens her fridge and makes her way back over to the dining room table and sits, handing Mickey and Archie cold bottles of Malta.  “You know, when the dream differentia started to get more intense, he almost lost his mind,” she says as she pops off the tops with a bottle opener.  “But it was hard for him, because he knew it was another guy.  I always knew though, before onset even happened.  A mother knows, and I knew my son was gay probably before he even realized it.”

Archie reaches across the table and grabs her hand.  “He was just like Mickey here when we first met.  In denial.”  He turns towards Mickey and offers a wink.  “But I knew he’d come around.  It took a while, but he did.”

“I always said this neighborhood would be the death of my son, I just never thought it would be from a stray bullet believe it or not,” Mrs. Jameson continues.  “Being a gay, black male was hard enough, a real death wish here.  He was always a target, so I always knew if it was a bullet, it would be deliberate.  So he hid who he was for most of his life, but I always accepted him.”

“What about his father?” Mickey asks.  The question comes out of nowhere, but also from someplace deep within himself.  Perhaps he’s curious because his own father never accepted him, almost killed him when he found out.  Or maybe it’s because Archie’s right and he identifies with this ghost more than he realizes.  Being gay in the Southside was also a death wish, but so was living with his own father.

A sad look crosses over Mrs. Jameson’s face.  She pauses for a moment, gathers her thoughts.  “When he was fifteen, his father died.  That’s when Jamaal became angry,” she says as she looks at Mickey.  “He was always secretive, but then the resentment kicked in after his father’s death.  You see, Jamaal was angry because his father died not knowing him, but he knew if he told him while he lived, he would’ve never accepted it.”

“It was always hard for him, a lose-lose,” Archie chimes in, “And the hard, transferred into our relationship when we first started out.  We even broke up once.”

“Broke up?” Mickey asks.  “Soulmates though?”  He takes a sip of the Malta, and fights back a gag.  What he thought was beer is some carbonated molasses drink.  He fights back a frown, forces the mouthful of Malta down.

Archie chuckles and places his hands underneath his chin as he bats his lashes at Mickey.  “So it must always be a fairytale between soulmates, right?” he mocks.  “Wrong honey.  Things are not always what they seem,” he points his chin towards the Malta.  “This shit can be hard and you have to work on it just like two people who aren’t soulmates.  After two months of dating, Jamaal decided it was too hard, and he wanted to exercise his free will,” he says as he throws up his hands and places quotation marks around ‘free will.’ 

“The hell are you trying to tell me Archie?” Mickey asks.

“I saw a hesitation in your eyes earlier when you were talking about Ian.  It’s the same hesitation I saw in Jamaal’s before he took his ‘break’ and I felt it would be good for you to come with me to meet his mom and talk to her.  She’s a wise woman who’s dealt with another you.”  Archie turns back towards Mrs. Jameson and squeezes her hand again.  “You see, she talked some sense into her frightened son, and I thought it would be helpful to do the same for you – without telling you first of course.  I knew you’d run the other way faster than a purse snatcher.”

Mickey takes his thumb and brushes his bottom lip nervously.  Archie’s right about that.  He would’ve taken off like a jet at the first mention of talking to some woman about his feelings.  That shit was for the sensitive.  “I just don’t know much about it,” he says now bothering the hem of his shirt, giving in to the fact that this visit is going to turn into a therapy session whether he likes it or not.

“When you say _it_ , you mean bipolar disorder?” Archie asks with intent.  Mickey nods, acknowledging.  “Did you tell Ian how you feel about it?”

“It doesn’t bother me if that’s what you’re asking,” Mickey responds. 

“Maybe not now,” Archie offers.  “But what about when you learn more about him and the things he’s been through?  Even a brute like you could get scared.”

Mickey frowns and studies Archie like he’s a stranger.  He waves at him dismissively.  “Yeah, and maybe you should fill out an application for back-up soulmate when I need someone to fill in,” he responds sarcastically.  “Obviously you know things about him that I don’t, so school me.”

“Hey, hey,” Archie responds defensively.  “Don’t be a smartass Mickey Milkovich.  I’m trying to help you out.  You’re right, there are things I know about Ian that you don’t, but that’s only because I’ve known him longer.  But that’s irrelevant.”

“Irrelevant how?  Are we still not talking about Ian?” Mickey asks.  “So what is it about him that will scare me so much?”

“Forget it,” Archie deflects, now clearly uncomfortable with the conversation he started.  He casts his eyes down to his hands, fidgets aimlessly with the garish tablecloth on Mrs. Jameson’s table.

Now annoyed, Mickey lets out an exasperated huff.  “No, you don’t get to do that shit,” he pushes, “start talking about something, then try to avoid finishing it.  So what is it?  You’re talking like Ian’s been locked away or something.”

There’s an awkward pause that’s only a few seconds long, but it’s enough to make Mickey even more suspicious.  Archie shifts uncomfortably in his chair, before clearing his throat and forcing a smile.  “You sound silly now,” Archie tries to dismiss, failing miserably.  “That’s nonsense.”

There are a million things Mickey can name off the top of his head that Archie is terrible at.  Using an indoor voice.  Liza Minelli impressions.  Acknowledging another’s personal bubble.  Avoiding double entendres.  Keeping a secret, etc.  But the one things he’s the worst at, is lying.  When he does it, it sticks out like two sore thumbs.  He contemplates calling him out on his bullshit, but avoids doing so in the presence of his guest and maybe out of an ounce of sympathy.  Mickey inwardly cringes at himself, because he’s officially becoming soft.

“You’re right, forget it,” Mickey acquiesces, earning a surprised look from Archie.  “I guess all of this is still so new to me, and is just something I know jack shit about.  I’ll just try not to let it bother me, like everything else in my life.”

“Things bother us, even when we’re not consciously thinking about it,” Mrs. Jameson chimes in, “Or admitting it.  And just like I told my son, the only way to deal with what you don’t understand, or are afraid of – is to face it.”

Mickey doesn’t respond.  What a fucking cliché.  Where he’s from, the only way to deal with what you don’t understand is to kill it.  It’s a surprise to him sometimes that his own destructive behavior in the past hasn’t ended his life yet – because what he understood the least most times was himself.  But as he looks at Mrs. Jameson, every contour of her face more than serious, and at the same time that much more endearing, he thinks maybe she’s on to something and he’s just ignorant.

Or again – just getting soft.  But if it means unlocking certain parts of Ian, then maybe not being so hard is worth it. 

Normally in situations like this, he disavows all advice that has anything to do with him _facing_ and _accepting_ – doing those two things have always been the most difficult for him, like mixing oil and water.  One always separates from the other.  He turns and looks at Archie who’s nervously studying every movement of his face. 

“I know you’re not into expressing your feelings and all, so I’m not gonna ask you to right now,” Archie offers.  “And you’re probably telling yourself you’ll never come back with me here, but again, Mrs. Jameson is a wise woman.  Me…well I’m just mouthy most times.”

“Most times?” Mickey responds rhetorically.

This earns a smile from Archie.  “Ok, all the time,” he admits.  “Plus, once you taste her lemon pineapple cake, you’ll come back on your own accord.” 

Mrs. Jameson waves her hand.  “Oh stop,” she laughs, her whole body bouncing as she does so.  “It’ll be my baked macaroni and cheese that does it.  But be forewarned – you better dig in before my folks get here if you want any.”  She stands from the table to make her way back into the kitchen.

“Thank you,” Mickey says to her just as she turns around. 

Mrs. Jameson looks over her shoulder at Mickey and offers another one of her Colgate smiles.  “No, thank you,” she responds.  “And from what I can see, Ian’s very lucky.”

“Which makes Mickey that much more lucky,” Archie adds.  He grins at Mickey for a few seconds, his face then turning a bit more serious as his brown eyes go from savvy to solemn.  He folds his arms on the table, leans in slightly towards Mickey as if preparing to tell a secret only the two of them can share.  “Just please,” he pleads in a whisper, “Try not to hurt him.”

Mickey fixes his mouth to refute Archie’s statement.  It’s what feels like a blazing arrow of words aimed straight at his head.  But instead, he takes it.  He lets them hit. 

Besides, he somehow feels he can’t shoot back with a promise that he won’t do just that.

////

Ian’s apartment is dark when Mickey returns hours later.  _Hours_.  He tries to blame the lack of light for the way the floor seems to move like a slow conveyer belt underneath his feet, when in fact it’s the one-too-many cups of special punch he had, spiked with Georgia Moon at the Jameson residence.  Mickey knew it was a bad idea to drink anything sold in a mason jar with a brown paper bag for a label.  But of course, Archie convinced him to try it, along with a few big, burly black dudes who said they were Jamaal’s cousins. 

He’s lucky he remembers his own name.

He stumbles into the living room, free falls to the couch and nearly hits the floor.  He lets out a drunken grunt just as he reaches to the lamp on the table next to the couch and flips the light on.  It nearly blinds him, momentarily makes everything around him white-washed and blurred.  He turns to his left, and for a second, he feels as if he’s dreaming as he sees a silhouette sitting at the end of the couch, the details vague within the outline of a person.  But there’s one distinct feature that even being drunk or dreaming could never fade – red hair.  The moment feels clichéd as he looks at what could pass as another stupid dream in front of him.

Mickey nearly falls off the couch again and onto the floor, this time from being startled by a stoic Ian.  He’s sitting at the end of the couch like a ghost stuck in a residual haunting, having been alone in the dark for God knows how long, his hands placed firmly on his knees.  “W-wha the fffuck?!” Mickey slurs.  He blinks his eyes furiously as Ian begins to zigzag, but Mickey knows he’s not moving.

“Where’ve you been?” Ian asks flatly.  His voice is low, so low, Mickey can barely hear him.  “You were supposed to meet me after my therapy – hours ago.”

He does his best to collect himself, and tries to focus on Ian without looking completely plastered.  It’s an epic fail, and with each drunken blink, he feels Ian becoming more agitated.  “I wwwent tooo…” Mickey slurs, “fffuckin’ Dorchester with Archibald,” he finally spits out.

“Really Mick.” Ian responds rhetorically, clearly not believing him.  “You went with Archie – to Dorchester.”

Mickey manages to straighten himself up on the couch, rubs both of his hands over his face.  He smiles sloppily without realizing, insulting Ian inadvertently – but as far as Ian is concerned it’s deliberate.  “I did,” Mickey manages to say normally with a little less slur.  “So relax…pretty in pink.”

Ian’s eyes widen at the nick name before narrowing, his stare so targeted it makes Mickey squirm.  Obviously, the nickname has hit a major artery.  Usually drunk, things like this don’t bother him, but Ian’s stare in this moment makes him thankful his inhibitions are riding the moonshine wave.  Ian stands and hovers over him, helicopter like, his arms like still, hanging blades ready to take his head off if he gets too close.

“Let me guess,” Ian says, his voice only an octave above upset, and a few more above suspicious, “Archie told you that?”

Mickey shrugs like he doesn’t remember – or care.  Truth is, he’s almost scared, seeing anger over Ian like this.  He rubs the bridge of his nose with his thumb apprehensively, thinks to himself why this nickname is so seemingly offensive.  Perhaps Ian is now more upset he even mentioned it, and not so much that he disappeared for hours without word.  “Actually,” he starts, almost spontaneously sober, “Mrs. Jameson called you that – lovingly might I add.  She’s quite fond of you.”

Ian laughs, amused, or maybe he’s fucking with him Mickey thinks.  There’s nothing funny about a slightly pissed off Ian, his six foot frame towering him during an interrogation while his head spins from too much cheap liquor and not enough food in his system.  “I bet,” Ian says as he turns around and walks towards his bedroom.  The door slams with a thunderous boom, and Mickey’s certain his head has split from the sound.

What the fuck just happened?

“Iannn!” Mickey yells fully drunk again.  He does his best to scramble to his feet, but fails miserably and stumbles into the lamp on the table next to the arm of the couch.  It hits the floor, accompanying Mickey there and shatters instantly.  A shard plows into the palm of his hand, the pain of the cut delayed from the alcohol coursing through his veins, but his confusion from Ian’s reaction is too sharp for him, even drunk – that’s not delayed at all.

Mickey closes his eyes as he lays flat on his back, the room spinning around his bewilderment as the blood from the glass pools in his palm.  He winces as he pulls out the shard, his head somewhere between a stupor and clarity.  His eyes shoot down the hall just as Ian scrambles out of the bedroom with globs of cotton balls in one hand and a bottle of peroxide in the other.  Without making eye contact, he kneels and grabs his hand, presses the cotton into the wound and holds it there.  It feels familiar.  The pressing down.  The stopping the bleeding.  Mickey would know because open wounds are nothing new for him.

“How’d you even know I was bleeding?” Mickey asks.  Ian removes the cotton and douses the cut with some peroxide.  Mickey cringes as he watches the white foam fizz around the cut.

“You hear shattered glass in a room with a drunk person, and it’s not hard to put two and two together,” Ian says, still not looking up.  “Blood somewhere, somehow, is bound to happen.”  He pulls a band aid out of his pocket and places it over the cut.  He finally looks at Mickey with a cool, straight face, his tight jaw rivaling the sharpest of lines.  “There,” he says as he pats the palm of Mickey’s hand, “all better.”

Mickey shrinks instantly, oddly feeling like a child.  And it’s funny, because his childhood never consisted of his parents caring for his wounds and putting band aids on them.  If anything, Terry was gifted at ripping them off – he knew blood, not care.  “How do you know?” Mickey asks following Ian’s statement, just as he turns to go back into the bedroom.

Ian spins around slowly, knowing Mickey’s talking about more than the cut on his hand.  “I don’t,” he shrugs, “but you do.”  Mickey manages to stand, but feels his feet become glued to the floor.  He can’t move, because whether or not he wants to admit it, Ian is right.  And it has nothing to do with the cut on his hand.

“Hold on,” Mickey calls after Ian as he tries to follow him to the bedroom, but cinderblocks for legs are never easy to move.  When Ian ignores him and goes into the bedroom, Mickey moves himself, slowly but surely, the stick of the alcohol making the short journey like hiking a mile in quicksand.  He enters the room and squints at Ian as he sits on his side of the bed, fidgeting with their current shared laptop.  “You wanna tell me why you’re acting like a fucking girl right now?  This is far beyond me having a terrible memory.”

“More like drinking too much,” Ian counters.

“Whatever, so I had one too many and forgot we had plans.  It’s not like I left you and never came back or anything.”

Ian lets out a long breath, and stills his tapping hands on the laptop.  He looks over his shoulder slightly, but not giving Mickey the decency of eye contact.  “Maybe I’m just used to people leaving,” he starts off lowly, “and never coming back.”

“The fuck?”  Now Mickey’s more baffled than ever.  Actually, it’s quite sobering.  “No, no – I think it’s more than that,” he challenges.  “Like this nickname you have.  It clearly pissed you off.”

Ian ignores Mickey’s comment and begins to tap furiously on the laptop keys.  So defiant.  Now Mickey’s getting pissed at how cheeky Ian can be when he doesn’t want to give too much.  It’s quite arrogant, actually.  After a few more moments, he simply shrugs in response to Mickey’s question, only offering a, “Humph.”

“So that’s it?” Mickey asks, trying his best to keep the tsunami wave of anger that’s in his chest from exploding and flooding the entire room.

“Just forget it,” Ian dismisses again.  “My Psychiatrist mentioned once that I might have abandonment issues.  So maybe I do.”  But Ian knows this realization came long before a shrink told him.  If anything, all she did was confirm it.  Mickey’s right – it’s more than that.

“I think your shrink’s a smart woman,” Mickey responds angrily.  The tapping on the laptop abruptly ceases.  He closes his eyes in the quiet, because he’s got his shit all backwards.  He should’ve phrased that better before spitting it out.  Wrong thing to say in a moment like this.  He’s wired in a way where words are always ready, fire, then aim – never ready, aim, fire.

There’s an uncomfortable moment of silence that makes the air so thick, Mickey feels his breath become labored.  Maybe he’s being too harsh, especially given he has no clue why the hell Ian’s really upset.  Fuck being gone for hours, this was something deep rooted – from another source.  He sits on the opposite side of the bed and stares at the white wall, paints it with a thousand _right_ things to say, but chooses none of them.  Still puzzled, but feeling slightly more sympathetic, he turns around to ask Ian in a better tone exactly what’s wrong. 

He’s already staring at him, his green eyes accusatory.  “You know I went on the laptop to look something up when you left earlier,” Ian says seriously. 

“Ok?” Mickey responds sarcastically, still not knowing where the hell Ian’s going with this. 

“You said your brother Iggy’s coming?”

“He is,” Mickey responds truthfully.  “What’s he got to do with anything right now?”

Ian laughs.  But it’s no tickled thing, rather it’s that sound that comes back to scratch you in the face later.  “You’re not very good at closing out the last thing you browse when you use the laptop,” Ian continues, “You never are.  I always find it amusing how you leave up girl-on-girl porn right before you let me pound you senseless into the mattress.”

“The hell are you going with – “

“But what I don’t find amusing,” Ian cuts Mickey off, “are links about how to cope with someone you’re in a relationship with – who has bipolar disorder.  Or, bipolar disorder and suicide, etcetera, etcetera.  Bipolar searches, ad infinitum.  And after you told me it didn’t bother you might I add.”

Mickey’s face falls.  _Shit, shit, shit._   His research was harmless – so he thought.  It was meant to _not_ be discovered by the person who drove the research in the first place.  “Ian, look – “

“Save it Mickey,” Ian cuts him off again.  “I’ve been through shit far more wounding than discovering my boyfriend’s secret research and the fact he thinks I may one day kill myself.”

“I don’t think you’re gonna off yourself, Ian,” Mickey offers.

“Like I said,” Ian responds, “I’ve been through worse than finding out what you really think.”

“I bet,” Mickey responds shortly.

“You don’t know the half,” Ian offers.  “But what you _do_ know, is that you’re afraid.  You know that you’re second guessing how to be with me.”

“Fuck you Ian,” Mickey bites, “I’m not Wes.  Clearly that guy has done some serious damage, but I didn’t realize how much until now.”  

Initially, Ian is silent.  The only thing he comes back with is a grunt and the shaking of his head.  “Yup, you definitely don’t know the half,” he finally responds.  “What makes you think he did the most damage?”

“You tryna say I am?”

“God you really don’t get it, do you?” Ian says with a lot more force. 

“No I don’t, so fucking sue me,” Mickey responds.  “So why don’t you help me to, huh?  Because right now I don’t get why google has you all mad like this.”

“Like I said, I’m used to people leaving when – “

“You’re my soulmate!” Mickey cuts Ian off, almost screaming.  The boom causes Ian to jump, hopefully snapping some sense back into him.  Mickey calms himself, looks at the wall again – his thoughts are easier placed there.  He takes a deep breath, tells himself it’s either all or nothing.  “Look, there’s just so much shit on my mind right now, I can’t even begin to tell you.  But I’d be with you, even if I didn’t know how, but that’s…that’s… _fuck_ Ian,” he stumbles.  Mickey turns around a takes the laptop out of Ian’s hand and closes it.  He ignores the frown that’s steadily deepening on his face.  “That’s so not it,” Mickey continues.

“Then _what_ is it?” Ian asks pointedly. 

For a moment, Mickey thinks of taking the lazy way out, and saying it’s his illness that scares him, when in fact, it was just his curiosity and ignorance of the disorder that made him search it in every way possible.  Every symptom.  Every scenario.  And maybe he is afraid of what being with someone who suffers with this could bring, but truth is, that wasn’t the most frightening part.  There were unspoken feelings far more terrifying, and truth be told, this is what has really been bothering Mickey.

 _All or nothing_ he thinks again.

“I thought loving you wouldn’t be easy, but now that I think about it…it is,” Mickey starts.  He catches Ian’s eyes as they widen half in surprise, half in uncertainty. 

“Are you saying you love me?”

“That’s not it,” Mickey dismisses.  He sees Ian’s shoulders drop slightly, and it’s right then and there he knows he has to stop hitting the backboard for a change and just make the damn shot.

“So you don’t love me,” Ian responds.  It’s stupid for him, to say that, because love between two people not just meant, but made to be together is inevitable, right?

Mickey clears his throat, this time grabbing the right thing to say that’s written the boldest on the wall. 

“It’s being _in love_ with you that’s hard,” he admits.  “And _that_ is what scares the shit out of me more than anything else.” 

Ian opens his mouth, before slamming it shut.  He’s rarely rendered speechless, this moment one of those rarities that comes out of nowhere.  This makes those deep, dark things he keeps locked away beneath the surface make feel that much worse, and just like Mickey’s admission, he knows he’ll have to own up to his own.  He clears his throat, attempts to respond.  “You’re, uh…” he trails off.  It shouldn’t be a surprise, but it is.  Now any fearful feelings Mickey has re mutual.

“I’m in love with you Ian,” Mickey reiterates, this time with more conviction.  And the rest is history.

There are many things Mickey would never admit out loud.  Being an undercover Justin Timberlake fanboy, because shit, he’s sexy.  Feeling a tear in his eye at the end of _Titanic_.  Knowing every word to the song, “Creator” by Santigold (thanks Mandy).  Being gay.  Actually being a little scared about Ian and his past and future struggles with his disorder.

Falling in love not only was one of them, but always the first and the last on the list – the ultimate verbal sin as far as he was concerned, right up there with being attracted to other guys.  Once admitting he was gay was off the list, he was certain none of the other silent truths would ever come out of his mouth.  And soulmate or not, how he felt about Ian was something he told himself he would never say.  He didn’t think it was in his vocabulary.  Now there’s two things off of his _never speak of_ list – admitting to finally being in love by far the scarier of the two.

Little does he know there are things he's going to learn about Ian that will demolish his entire list and make those other things look like child’s play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In all honesty, things have not been so great since the end of Spring this year for me, but I'm glad things are somewhat balancing out. Hopefully Part 2 will not take as long (being it is about 50% done, so unless life strikes again, I have no excuse lol). More to come in Part 2, and I hope you all still continue to read this little story in my little corner of the universe. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Ya'll know by now I always have musical inspirations! I wrote this first chapter mainly to the song, "Star Eyes (I Can't Catch It) [Feat. David Lynch]" by Sparklehorse and Danger Mouse. There was also some listening to "Dreamt for Light Years in the Belly of a Mountain (Aka Maxine)" by Sparklehorse. I just...really love sharing music too, lol. I certainly hoped you enjoyed this, and chapter two is under construction. This is also in light of A.U.gust month (I live for AU fics). 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! :)


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